I’ll never forget the drive down to Shropshire last month – me behind the wheel of our battered old estate car, sat-nav chirping away like it had a personal grudge. We’d just passed Telford when the heavens opened, turning the M54 into a proper skidpan. I misjudged a puddle, aquaplaned for what felt like miles, and ended up nose-to-tail with a lorry. Heart in my mouth, but we pulled over, had a brew from the thermos, and laughed it off. By the time we trundled into Shrewsbury, I was buzzing with that mix of relief and holiday anticipation – you know, wondering if the place would live up to the photos.

Pulling up to the cosy little holiday cottage, tucked away in a quiet spot just outside Shrewsbury, my first impressions were spot on. It was one of those charming two-bedroom numbers with a welcoming vibe, flower baskets dangling by the door and a garden begging for a GandT at sunset. We dumped the bags and headed straight out for a wander, keen to soak it all in.

First character we bumped into was Reg, the butcher on the high street. Bloke must’ve been in his seventies, apron stretched over a belly earned from years of sampling his own sausages. “You lot from up country?” he asked, eyeing our accents as he wrapped up some local pork chops. I nodded, and he launched into a tale about the time a fox nicked half his stock from the back yard – “sneaky blighter, had a better eye for quality than most customers!” We chuckled, bought double what we needed, and he slipped in a free pack of black pudding with a wink. Proper Shropshire hospitality.

Next day, strolling along the River Severn – banks alive with dog walkers and the odd heron – we met Doris at the tearoom by the bridge. She was the waitress, peroxide hair piled high, serving up cream teas with a side of gossip. “Staying long? Mind the ghosts in them old cottages,” she said, leaning in conspiratorially. Turned out her gran swore blind the place we were in had a poltergeist that rattled teacups. I pressed her for details over scones, and she regaled us with stories of Shrewsbury’s quirky history – smugglers on the quay, that sort of thing. Her laugh was infectious; we ended up staying an hour longer than planned, bellies full and sides splitting.

The real gem was old Tom, the lock-keeper we chatted to while messing about on the canal towpath. He was tinkering with his narrowboat, pipe clenched between teeth, regaling a group of us with yarns about the Shroppie’s characters. “Seen ‘em all – poets, painters, and one fella who reckoned he was reincarnated from Ironbridge,” he grinned. Tom had us in stitches with his tale of a narrowboat wedding where the bride’s hat floated off downstream mid-ceremony. We shared a flask of tea, swapped emails for his canal maps, and he even tipped us off to the best pub quiz that night.

Those encounters made the trip – not the walks or the views (though they were cracking), but the people. Lying in the cottage garden that last evening, pint in hand, I had a quiet moment reflecting: in our rush-rush lives back home, we forget how a bit of chit-chat with proper characters recharges the soul. Shropshire’s full of ‘em, and I’m already plotting a return.