I’ll never forget the drive down to Somerset – we took the scenic route from Taunton, winding through those lush green lanes, but about five miles out, the sat-nav decided to have a midlife crisis and sent us looping round a muddy farm track. Mud everywhere, and me swearing under my breath (well, not quite swearing) as we fishtailed out. By the time we arrived, hearts racing a bit, I was half-expecting a disaster, but pulling up to this light and airy first-floor apartment in an imposing period farmhouse near Williton – just two miles from the village and a quick hop from the steam railway station – it was love at first sight. Tucked between the Quantock Hills, Exmoor’s edge, and the coast, with landscaped gardens rolling out next door to a garden nursery, the views across shrubby borders to the Quantocks had us grinning like idiots. Up the external staircase, it felt like stepping into a cosy rural hug.

First impressions? Spot on. We dumped the bags and headed straight to Williton for supplies, buzzing with that holiday anticipation – you know, plotting cream teas and hill walks. That’s where we met Madge, the no-nonsense postmistress at the village shop. She’s got this wiry energy, probably in her seventies, with a laugh like a foghorn. “You lot from up country, eh? Don’t go getting lost on the Quantocks – had a walker last week end up in my veg patch!” She pressed free pasties on us, insisting they were “proper Somerset, not that tourist rubbish.” We chatted for ages about her glory days racing greyhounds, and how the steam railway brings in all sorts – “Mostly trainspotters with binoculars bigger than their heads,” she cackled.

Next day, pottering in the gardens next door, we bumped into Tom, the nursery owner. Proper character, him – beard like a hedge, hands caked in soil, forever muttering to his prize rhododendrons. “They’re touchy buggers, these Quantock shrubs,” he said, thrusting a punnet of strawberries our way. Turned out he’d lived here man and boy, knew every smuggler’s path down to the coast at Watchet, just a couple of miles off. We spent the afternoon hearing tales of wartime evacuees hiding in the farmhouse attics (not ours, mind), and his failed bid to breed Exmoor ponies that ended with one eating his best fuchsias. “Keeps life interesting,” he winked.

The quirky locals really made it. At the steam railway station – a stone’s throw away – we caught the puffing Billy chug in and met Harold, the volunteer stationmaster. Octogenarian with a flat cap and stories for days. “This line’s older than my nan,” he declared, showing us sepia photos of dignitaries who’d once alighted there. Over tea in the signal box, he regaled us with how he once derailed a model train demo chasing off foxes. “Pesky blighters, worse than the tourists!”

Even a gentle stroll to the nearby Quantock trails introduced us to Jen, the shepherdess with a flock of woolly escape artists. “They’ve got more sense than half the visitors,” she laughed, as one lamb nuzzled my leg. Her chat about coastal paths to Blue Anchor Bay (barely three miles) had us planning a sunset saunter.

Looking back, amid all these larger-than-life characters, I had a quiet moment on the apartment’s balcony, mug of tea in hand, watching the Quantocks haze over. Here I was, city-stressed me, chatting with folk who live by the seasons and a good yarn. It’s a reminder that holidays aren’t just views – they’re the people who make you feel right at home. Can’t wait to go back for more.