I’ll never forget the drive down to Dumfries and Galloway – a proper Scottish road trip that started with me confidently tapping away at the sat-nav, only for it to lead us straight into a flock of sheep blocking the narrow lane near Thornhill. There we were, engine idling, as this woolly parade ambled past, the farmer giving us a cheery wave like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Welcome to the borders, lads!” he bellowed, and I couldn’t help but laugh. By the time we arrived at the holiday cottage, hearts were already lighter, buzzing with that holiday anticipation of fresh air and no emails.

Pulling into the courtyard of these six converted 18th-century farm steadings, I was chuffed to bits. It’s the sort of cosy spot with stunning views across the surrounding countryside from the patio – perfect for a cuppa at dawn. First impressions? Spot on. We dumped the bags and headed straight out, keen to soak up the local vibe around Thornhill, that historic village nestling at the foot of the dramatic Southern Uplands on the banks of the River Nith.

It didn’t take long to meet our first character: Tam, the chap running the village shop just a stroll away. He’s got this wild beard that looks like it’s been trimmed with a strimmer, and eyes twinkling with mischief. “Ach, you’re the English lot in the cottages, eh? Seen your car – posh plates!” he grinned, handing over a pint of local milk and a slab of tablet that stuck to my teeth like glue. We got chatting about the river, how it floods every few years but everyone just shrugs it off. “Builds character,” Tam said, winking. “Like my wife’s scones – tough but worth it.” I nearly choked on my laugh.

Next day, wandering the riverside paths, we bumped into Moira, out walking her collie, Meg. She’s the quintessential quirky local – scarf askew, wellies caked in mud, regaling us with tales of the Nith’s salmon runs. “Caught a monster last summer, bigger than my leg!” she declared, arms flailing dramatically. Turned out she’s lived here 50 years, knows every quirk of the Uplands. We ended up at her mate’s tearoom in the village, where the owner, wee Jimmy, insisted on pouring us endless pots of tea while moaning about the tourists who “come for the views but forget the midges.” His impression of a posh visitor swatting bugs had us in stitches – spot-on, especially since I’d already been dive-bombed that morning.

The real gem was old Rab at the pub down by the quay. Bald as a coot, with a voice like gravel, he pulled up a stool and launched into stories of Thornhill’s smuggling heyday. “Back in the day, we’d hide the whisky under the bridge – customs men never found a drop!” Whether true or not, his enthusiasm was infectious, pint in hand, drawing in half the bar for a sing-song of folk tunes. I sat there, mesmerised, thinking how these encounters make a holiday – not the fancy dinners, but the warmth of folk who treat you like family after five minutes.

Reflecting on it now, as I gaze out from the patio with the hills rolling away, I realise I’ve been too city-bound lately, rushing about. These characters – Tam’s banter, Moira’s yarns, Rab’s gravelly wisdom – reminded me to slow down, listen, laugh. Dumfries and Galloway’s got that magic: proper people, proper stories. Can’t wait to come back.