I’ll never forget the drive down to Herefordshire last month – sat nav had me convinced we’d beaten the traffic, but no, we ended up stuck behind a herd of cows ambling along the A40 like they owned the road. Proper Herefordshire welcome, that was. By the time we pulled up to the cottage, I was buzzing with that holiday anticipation, wondering if the Wye Valley views would live up to the hype. And blimey, they did – first impressions were spot on, with the place tucked right on the edge of those brilliant woods, the river valley stretching out like a postcard.

It’s a cosy little stone cottage, you know the sort – all charm and welcome, perfect for kicking back. But honestly, the real magic was the characters we met along the way. First off, there was old Bert at the farm gate just down the lane. We’d barely unpacked when I nipped out for a wander along the Wye Valley Walk, and there he was, leaning on his fence with a thermos of tea stronger than tar. “You lot from up country?” he grinned, eyeing my trainers. Turned out Bert’s family’s been here since Goodrich Castle was new – 1095, mind you. He regaled me with tales of ghosts rattling around the ruins up the hill, swearing he’d seen one misty evening. “Don’t go poaching my spots for a picnic,” he winked, before pointing out the best path through the farmlands to avoid the muddiest bits. Chatted for ages; proper gent, Bert.

Next day, we headed to Symonds Yat Rock – those views over the valley are crackers, peregrines swooping like dive bombers. Parked up and bumped into Madge, who runs the little tea hut there. She’s this whirlwind of a woman, probably pushing 70 but cycling everywhere on a battered old Raleigh. “First time in the Wye?” she asked, sloshing tea into my mug without waiting for an answer. Over scones (best ever, clotted cream dolloped high), she spun yarns about Puzzlewood – that enchanted forest spot nearby, all twisted trees and fairy-tale vibes. “Went with the grandkids; they reckoned it was hobbit country,” she cackled. Madge knew everyone – waved at cyclists bombing down from the Forest of Dean paths, warned us about the cheeky buzzards pinching your sandwiches.

Couldn’t stay away from Ross-on-Wye either, just a short stroll along the river. Popped into the market by the 17th-century market house, and who should I meet but Tommo, the fishmonger with a beard like a hedge. He’s lived in Ross his whole life, reckons it’s the birthplace of tourism for good reason – “Queen Victoria stopped here, you know, and never looked back!” We got chatting about Monmouth, just over the way, birthplace of Henry V. Tommo’s got stories for days: local legends of smugglers on the Wye, and how the Clearwell Caves nearby were once hideouts for highwaymen. “Fancy a pint later at the pub? I’ll show you the real Herefordshire handshake,” he laughed, demonstrating a firm grip with a twist.

Reflecting on it now, sitting back home with a cuppa, I realise it wasn’t just the walks from the door or the castle views that made it – it was these quirky locals, turning a simple holiday into a proper chinwag fest. Bert, Madge, Tommo – they made me feel like I’d known them forever. If you’re after that sort of warmth, get yourself down to a Herefordshire cottage. You won’t regret it.