I’ll never forget the drive to Church Stretton – our sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly just past Shrewsbury, sending us on a merry dance down a narrow lane that had more potholes than a cheeseboard. We were bouncing along like we were in a rally car, with the kids in the back giggling and my other half muttering about trusting technology less. But as we crested the hill and spotted the town nestled below, all that faded. There it was, this high-end holiday home perched on the hillside above the market town – a proper period beauty, private as you like, with everything you need for a multi-generational bash. First impressions? Blimey, it was love at first sight, opening straight onto the Shropshire Hills. I could already picture us spilling out the garden for walks up the Long Mynd.

We’d barely unpacked when we wandered into town for supplies, and that’s when the real magic kicked off – the quirky locals. First up was Bert at the butcher’s, a wiry chap in his seventies with a handshake like a vice and stories that flowed faster than his home-reared sausages. “You up for the Long Mynd, then?” he grinned, eyes twinkling. “Mind the wild ponies – they’ve got more cheek than my missus!” He reckoned the best spot for a picnic was atop the Mynd at dawn, where the mist rolls like a sheepdog’s breath. We laughed as he pressed free pork scratchings into our hands, insisting they’d fuel our first hike into Rectory Wood. Proper character, Bert was – made you feel like you’d known him for years.

Next day, strolling Carding Mill Valley, we bumped into Sheila, a retired teacher walking her spaniel, Percy. She was all kitted out in sensible boots and a bobble hat, regaling us with tales of Church Stretton’s “Little Switzerland” nickname. “Swum in the pools up there meself, back in the day,” she winked, nodding towards the wild swimming spots. “Cold as a witch’s tit, but invigorating!” The grandkids were wide-eyed as she sketched a quick map on a napkin, pointing out hidden trails to Caer Caradoc. Her enthusiasm was infectious – we ended up joining her for tea at the little café, where she quizzed us on city life and shared how the hills had healed her after losing her husband. Proper heart-to-heart, that was.

Even the pub landlord, Tom, became a highlight. Over pints of Shropshire Lad, he spun yarns about the Stiperstones’ ghosts – “The Devil’s Chair, they call it, and don’t you laugh, I’ve heard the screams meself!” His booming laugh filled the bar, drawing in other regulars who chipped in with their own daft encounters, like the time a ram photobombed a wedding shoot. We didn’t make it to Ironbridge or Ludlow – too busy soaking up the local colour right here.

Reflecting on it now, as we watched the sun dip behind the hills from the garden, I realised it wasn’t just the tranquillity or the adventures that made it special. It was these folk – Bert’s sausages, Sheila’s wisdom, Tom’s tall tales – who turned a holiday into something proper memorable. In a world of screens, chatting with real characters like that? Pure gold. Can’t wait to go back.