I’ll never forget the drive to our Shropshire hideaway last summer. We’d piled into the car in Birmingham, kids buzzing in the back with crisps and iPads, me navigating via a dodgy sat-nav that decided halfway through to send us down a narrow lane masquerading as a road. Cue a classic mishap: we got properly wedged behind a tractor chugging along at snail’s pace, the farmer giving us a cheery wave like it was all part of the fun. I was sweating a bit, picturing the holiday starting with a tow truck, but 20 minutes later we were free, and the rolling hills opened up like a proper postcard.

Pulling up to the place, my heart did a little flip – this beautifully renovated former dairy house, tucked into a working farm, looked every bit the cosy dream we’d booked. Private, peaceful, with that just-right mix of rustic charm and modern comfort. First impressions? Spot on. The sun was dipping low, casting a golden glow over the fields, and I could already imagine lazy mornings with coffee on the patio.

But the real magic? The characters we met. Right off, there was old Bert, the farmer who owns the land. He popped over with a tray of fresh eggs still warm from the hens, his flat cap perched at a jaunty angle and a grin full of mischief. “You lot from the big smoke?” he asked, eyeing our city plates. Turned out Bert’s been here 50 years, regaling us with tales of the farm’s heyday – cows galore, and him as a lad racing around on a homemade go-kart that sounded like a death trap. We chuckled over his story of once mistaking a fox for the family dog at dawn, leading to a dawn chorus of swearing hens. Proper Shropshire humour, dry as a GandT.

Then there was quirky Maureen from the nearby Hawkstone Park Follies – we wandered those 100 acres the next day, stumbling on grottos and mini-castles hidden in the woods. She’s the tea lady at Hawkstone Hall, with a laugh like a foghorn and stories for days. Over scones slathered in clotted cream, she leaned in conspiratorially: “Seen the hermitage yet? Legend says a monk lived there, pondering life while nicking the odd pie from the kitchens.” We were in stitches, her tales turning a simple walk into an adventure. The kids loved her ghost stories about the follies, even if they pretended not to.

Even at the local Hawkstone Park MX track, just down the lane, we bumped into Mad Mick, a motocross nut with a beard like a hedge and tattoos from his glory days. He let the little ones sit on his bike (engine off, mind), spinning yarns about epic races and the time he flipped over a jump into a cowpat. “Keeps you humble,” he winked. Those chats over muddy wellies made the place feel like home.

Reflecting on it now, amid my usual chaos back in Brum, I realise it wasn’t just the tranquility or the easy strolls – it was those locals, with their warmth and wit, that made our dairy house stay unforgettable. Shropshire’s got soul, and we’re counting down to our next escape already.