I’ll never forget the drive down to Somerset last month – me behind the wheel of our trusty old Volvo, sat-nav chirping away like it owned the road, and my wife insisting we stop for a proper cream tea en route. Big mistake. About 20 minutes from the M5 exit, I took a wrong turn chasing what I thought was a shortcut through some winding lanes near Highbridge, and ended up bogged down in a muddy farm track. The car’s tyres spun like a hamster on a wheel, and there I was, knee-deep in Somerset clay, feeling like a right numpty. Luckily, a chap in a flat cap – let’s call him Farmer Dave – materialised out of nowhere with his tractor. “First time in these parts, eh?” he grinned, towing us out with a wink. “Mind the cows next time; they’ve got right of way.” We laughed it off, and suddenly the anticipation bubbled up – this was going to be a proper holiday.

Pulling up to the house just a couple of miles off the motorway, near Highbridge station, my heart lifted. It’s one of those split properties on a posh road in Burnham-on-Sea: the main house for the whole family, all light and airy with stunning interiors that screamed luxury without trying too hard, and a cosy annexe upstairs for a bit of privacy if you fancied. First impressions? Spot on. We dumped the bags and cracked open a bottle of local cider on the patio, the sea breeze whispering promises of lazy days ahead.

But the real magic unfolded through the quirky locals we bumped into – they’re the heartbeat of Burnham, full of stories and cheek. Take Mrs Patel at the newsagent on the high street, not five minutes’ walk away. Tiny woman with a laugh like a foghorn, she clocked our London plates and launched into tales of her youth dodging jellyfish on the beach. “You lot from up country think Somerset’s all cider and clotted cream,” she cackled, piling our paper and milk into a bag. “But it’s the ghosts in the arcade that’ll get ya – haunted by a chap who lost his shilling in 1923!” We chuckled, hooked already.

Then there was Barry, the fisherman we met casting off the pier one misty morning. Ruddy-faced with a pipe clenched in his teeth, he reeled us into a yarn about the time a seal nicked his catch. “Cheeky blighter swam right up and plucked a mackerel off the line!” he roared, eyes twinkling. Over fish and chips from his mate’s van – proper batter, mind – he quizzed us on city life. “Traffic? Bah! Try herding geese across the road to market.” His passion for the flats at low tide, hunting for lugworms, had us planning our own muddy adventure.

Even at the community garden by the seafront, we fell in with Reg, a retired postman with stories for days. “Plenty of eccentrics round here,” he confided over tea from his flask, pointing out his prize veg. “Like old Madge who talks to the gulls – swears they bring her lottery numbers.” We spent an afternoon pottering with him, swapping seeds and giggles.

Reflecting on it now, amid the luxury of that house, it wasn’t the fancy setup that stuck – it was these characters, turning a simple holiday into a tapestry of laughs and warmth. Somerset’s got that knack: pulls you in with its quiet charm, then hits you with souls who make you feel like family. We’re already plotting a return.