I’ll never forget the drive up to Enniskillen – or rather, the bit just before Garrison, where the satnav decided to throw a proper wobbly and sent us down a narrow lane that looked more like a sheep track. We were bouncing along in our hired Fiesta, me gripping the wheel, the wife yelling “Are we lost already?” and the kids in the back chanting for ice cream. Turned out it was just a cheeky shortcut through some farmer’s field, but we emerged laughing, with mud on the tyres and a story to tell. By the time we pulled up to this cracking four-bedroom house tucked near Lough Melvin, the anticipation had us buzzing – would it live up to the pics? Blimey, it did and then some. First impressions? Spot on: off-road parking for our two cars, a shop and pub just a stroll away, and that lake shimmering like it was waiting to welcome us.

Stepping inside, the sitting room wrapped us up with its electric fire flickering away (perfect for us soft southerners) and a telly ready for footie. But the real gem was the kitchen/diner – fully kitted out, begging for a fry-up and a natter over tea. We dumped the bags and headed straight to the local pub that evening, and that’s when the real holiday kicked off. Enter Seamus, the barman with a beard like a hedge and stories longer than a Fermanagh winter. “Yer from down south, eh? Dublin lot?” he grinned, pouring a pint of the black stuff. I confessed we were English, and he roared with laughter. “Same difference! Try the stew – me ma’s recipe, keeps the tourists comin’ back.” We got chatting about the lake fishing, him regaling us with tales of monster pike that “could swallow a Labrador whole.” The kids were wide-eyed; my wife and I were hooked.

Next day, down at the shop by the lake, we met wee Mrs. O’Toole – must’ve been 80 if she was a day, but sharp as a tack. “Fresh soda bread, love?” she asked, eyeing our full English accents. While slicing it thick, she launched into her feud with the swans on Lough Melvin. “Cheeky beggars, stealin’ me ducks’ feed!” We spent half an hour there, her mimicking the swans’ hisses, us in stitches. Turned out she’d lived through every local drama – the time the pub quiz nearly caused a riot over “Who shot JR?” Spoiler: everyone blamed her cousin.

Later, on a gentle wander by the water, we bumped into Tommy, the fisherman with a flat cap and a dog called Guinness (natch). He was untangling his line, muttering about “eels playin’ hide and seek.” Over a shared flask of tea, he shared whispers of the fairy trees nearby – “Don’t be messin’ with ’em, or yer car’ll never start again!” Pure gold, that yarn; had us glancing at the hedgerows all afternoon.

Reflecting on it now, sat back home with a cuppa, I realise it wasn’t the house or the views that made it – though they were lush – it was these quirky souls. They turned a quiet break into a proper character-filled adventure, reminding me how a bit of craic with strangers beats any five-star spa. If you’re after a tranquil spot with heart, Garrison’s your bet. We’re already plotting a return.