I’ll never forget the drive down to the Forest of Dean – or rather, the detour that nearly did me in. We’d packed the car with enough crisps and tea bags to last a siege, humming along the M5, when sat-nav decided to have a midlife crisis. “Turn left in 200 yards,” it chirped, straight into a narrow lane that pinched tighter than my jeans after Christmas dinner. Branches scraped the roof like an overenthusiastic car wash, and I’m yelling at the screen while my other half laughs and snaps photos. Half an hour later, we emerged, a bit windswept but buzzing with that “we’ve survived” glow, pulling up to this cracking garden flat tucked into an imposing house amid stunning gardens.

First impressions? Blimey, better than a Lottery win. A pretty patio led us right to the door of this superb apartment, all thoughtfully kitted out and spotless as a new pin. Heart of historic Sandwich, yet peaceful enough to hear a pin drop – or in our case, the kettle boiling for that first cuppa. We were grinning like kids, already plotting lazy mornings on the patio with the sun filtering through the leaves.

But the real magic? The characters we met, those proper quirky locals who turned our holiday into a sitcom. First up was Derek at the pub just 500 yards away – barrel-chested chap with a handshake like a vice and stories longer than a vicar’s sermon. Over a pint of the local ale (smooth as silk, that), he regaled us with tales of Sandwich’s smuggling heyday. “Back in the day, mate,” he winked, leaning in conspiratorially, “rum runners hid barrels under the very gardens you’re staying in. Keep an ear out for ghostly clinks at night!” We chuckled, half-believing him, and ended up staying for pie that could’ve won awards.

Then there was Maureen from the shop, same distance down the road – a whirlwind of a woman with a perm that defied gravity and gossip that flowed freer than the River Stour. Popped in for milk and came out with the lowdown on everyone within a mile. “Avoid old Bert’s veg stall on Tuesdays,” she stage-whispered, eyes twinkling, “he waters ’em with pond water, cheeky devil.” Her laugh was infectious, and before we knew it, we were swapping recipes for her famous Kentish cobbler. Proper heart-of-the-community stuff.

Out by the coast, a couple of miles’ stroll, we bumped into retired fisherman Tom, perched on a bench with binoculars, spotting seals like it was his job. “They’re cheekier than the tourists!” he guffawed, offering us a flask of tea strong enough to strip paint. We chatted for ages about the best pebble beaches (Pegwell Bay’s a gem, apparently) and how the tides whisper secrets if you listen right. His passion for the patch was contagious – made me reflect on my own rush-rush city life. Why don’t I slow down more, chinwag with strangers, let the world unfold like that?

Back at the flat each evening, nursing a GandT on the patio, we’d replay the day’s yarns, bellies full from Derek’s recommendations. Sandwich’s attractions – the medieval streets, the Quay with its bobbing boats – were ace, but it was these folk who made it unforgettable. You’ll need two holidays to squeeze it all in, but honestly, who’d complain? Packed my bags lighter, heart fuller. Can’t wait to go back.