I’ll never forget the drive to our holiday spot in the Brecon Beacons – a proper faff from the start. We’d piled into two cars from Cardiff, me navigating with my dodgy phone signal, when suddenly the sat-nav decided to send us down a single-track lane that looked more like a sheep’s personal runway. Bumper-deep in mud after a sharp turn gone wrong, we spent half an hour digging out with borrowed spades from a passing tractor driver, laughing like idiots as the rain started. But oh, the anticipation built – visions of cosy nights and epic walks in those misty hills had us buzzing by the time we finally rolled up to this cracking 100-acre working farm, dead in the heart of the national park.

First impressions? Magic. Two swish farm cottages and a barn conversion that sleeps 15, all nestled where the trails literally wander past your door. We were a big rabble – extended family and mates – and it felt like home straight away, with that fresh country air hitting you like a tonic.

What made it, though, were the characters. First up was Dai the farmer, our host, who greeted us with a handshake like a vice and a grin wider than the Usk Valley. “You lot look like you’ve been wrestling sheep already!” he chuckled, eyeing our muddy boots. Over tea in his kitchen – proper builder’s brew – he regaled us with tales of the farm’s history, pointing out the exact path for the Epynt Way that snakes right through his land. “Take the left fork at the old oak, or you’ll end up in Sennybridge pub by teatime,” he winked. We did wander into Sennybridge, just three miles off, and there was Tom behind the bar at the local, a wiry chap with stories for days. “Brecon Beacons folk are born walkers,” he declared, pouring pints. “But mind the sheep – they’ve got right of way!” We got chatting about Pen y Fan, 12 miles yonder but close enough for a day’s hike, and he sketched a dodgy map on a napkin, insisting we try the farm trail first for the best views without the crowds.

Next day, cycling the paths near Glasfynydd Forest – under 10 miles, pure bliss – we bumped into Ellen, a no-nonsense shepherdess mending a fence. “You on the farm stay? Good on ya,” she said, her dog nipping at our heels. She shared her secret picnic spot by the Carmarthen Fans, just a hop away, and we swapped laughs about city folk like us mistaking her ewes for lost pets. Back at the farm, evening brought a impromptu gathering with Dai’s neighbour, grizzled old Idris from the River Usk banks, three miles down. He rocked up with a bottle of homemade sloe gin, spinning yarns about fishing the Usk at dawn. “Patience, that’s the trick – like life, innit?” We sat round the fire pit, him mimicking the posh Brecon tourists who’d once asked if the hills moved.

Those chats were gold – quirky locals with that warm Welsh wit, pulling you into their world. Made me reflect, mid-sloe gin glow, on how we rush about back home, missing these simple connections. No Instagram filters needed; just real folk and rolling hills. If you’re after a getaway that sticks, this farm’s your spot – characters included.