I’ll never forget the drive down to Somerset – we’d piled into two cars from Bristol, kids buzzing in the back, when halfway through the Quantocks, the satnav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us down a muddy farm track that had us sliding about like we were in a rally. A quick U-turn and a sheepish laugh later, we were back on track, hearts racing but grinning at the daft start to our holiday.

Pulling up to this massive holiday house in Bishops Lydeard, I felt that proper tingle of anticipation – you know, that mix of ‘this better be as good as the photos’ and ‘what if we’ve overpacked for the hot tub?’. First impressions? Spot on. It’s one of those big, welcoming places perfect for groups, sleeping 20 in ten ensuite bedrooms, with an indoor pool, games room, cinema, hot tub, three reception rooms, and three acres of gardens to roam. The kitchen’s a dream for self-catering, though I reckon it’d handle a private chef no bother for a big bash like a birthday or hen do.

But honestly, the real magic was the quirky locals we bumped into – they made the whole trip. First off, there was old Bert at the village shop, a wiry chap in his eighties with a face like a wrinkled apple and stories for days. I popped in for milk and came out with a full rundown on the best pasty spots in Taunton (his mate’s van does ’em fresh Fridays). “You lot up at the big house?” he winked, peering over his specs. “Don’t let the peacocks from the farm next door wake you – they’re worse than my ex-wife’s cockerel!” We howled, and I nipped back later for his recommended cider from the Lydeard Treasures microbrewery just down the road.

Then there was Sarah, the postie who delivered a forgotten parcel (cheers, Amazon). She leant on her bike, helmet askew, and launched into tales of the Minehead steam train that chuffs through nearby – “Best day out, love, but mind the seagulls at the station café; they’re proper ninjas!” Her laugh was infectious, and she even sketched a quick route on a scrap of paper to the West Somerset Railway, warning us about the cheeky signalman who once locked tourists in the waiting room for a laugh.

Even at the Blackbird Inn pub a short stroll away, we met Madge behind the bar, doling out pints and gossip. “Heard you’ve got the pool – jealous! My lot’d turn it into a lido party.” She regaled us with yarns about the annual Bishops Ball, where the vicar once danced the conga in wellies after too many local ales. We spent evenings there, swapping stories, her teasing my rubbish darts while the kids demolished chips.

Staring out over the gardens one misty morning, pint of tea in hand, I had a quiet moment thinking how these chance chats beat any fancy facility. In a world of screens, it’s the Berts, Sarahs, and Madges that stick – proper characters who make Somerset feel like home. We left buzzing, already plotting a return. What a riot.