I’ll never forget the drive down to Somerset – sat nav had me convinced I’d taken a wrong turn somewhere near Minehead, and there I was, faffing about with a map app that kept losing signal in the middle of blooming Exmoor. Turned out I’d just missed a sneaky turning off the A39, but by the time I pulled up to this lovely little complex of country cottages tucked away in the Avill Valley, between Dunster and Timberscombe, I was buzzing with that proper holiday anticipation. The place looked like something out of a postcard – all peaceful and green, right in the heart of the national park. Perfect for me on my own, with its cosy one-bedroom setup and those twin beds that made it feel just right for a solo wanderer.

First impressions? Spot on. Stepped inside, dumped my bags, and immediately felt that sigh-of-relief settle in. But the real magic of the stay wasn’t the views (though they were cracking) – it was the characters I bumped into. Take old Reg from the farm up the lane. I met him on my first wander down to Dunster, trudging along with his dog, a scruffy terrier called Bert who eyed me like I’d nicked his dinner. Reg reckoned he’d lived there 50 years, and over a natter by the castle gates – you know, that proper medieval pile looming over the village – he launched into tales of the time a herd of Exmoor ponies broke free and caused merry chaos in the high street. “They’ve got minds of their own, them ponies,” he chuckled, his Somerset burr thick as clotted cream. “One stared me down like I owed it a pint!” I couldn’t stop laughing; the man’s got a twinkle in his eye that’d charm the feathers off a hen.

Then there was Sheila at the Timberscombe tearoom, a stone’s throw from the cottages. Popped in for a cream tea – naturally – and she clocked me as the “townie from up country” straight away. “You here to escape the rat race, love?” she asked, plonking down scones the size of my fist. We got chatting about village life, and she regaled me with stories of the annual wassail in the orchard nearby, where locals bash cider barrels with sticks to wake the trees. “Keeps the frost at bay, or so they say,” she winked. “Though half of ’em just fancy the free scrumpy.” Her laugh was infectious, and before I knew it, I’d promised to come back next year for the full shebang.

Even the bloke at the Dunster village shop, Tom, was a gem. Gruff at first, serving up pasties with a nod, but when I mentioned the valley’s quiet paths, he perked up. “Quiet? Ha! You should’ve seen the fuss when the otters took up in the river last summer. Whole village out with torches, thinking it was Bigfoot!” Turned out he’s the unofficial otter spotter, and he sketched a dodgy map on the back of my receipt for the best hidey-holes along the Avill.

Looking back, it was those chats that made the trip. Me, a bit of a lone wolf usually, reflecting on how a few quirky locals can turn a simple holiday into something dead special. No grand adventures needed – just good company, a cuppa, and stories that stick. Can’t wait to go back.