I’ll never forget the drive up to North Wales – we took the scenic route through those winding lanes, me at the wheel with the sat-nav bossing us about, when wouldn’t you know it, we got stuck behind a sheep farmer herding his flock with a collie that looked more in charge than he did. Took half an hour to disentangle, and by the time we arrived, I was starving and dreaming of a cuppa.

Pulling up to the cottage, my heart did a little flip – it was even better than the photos, this cosy spot tucked away in the hills, perfect for couples like us or a small family. Luxurious inside without being flashy, and that outside space? Blimey, the hot tub and alfresco dining area had me grinning like a kid at Christmas. First impressions were spot on; it felt like our own private slice of heaven, miles from the rat race.

But the real magic was the characters we met – proper quirky locals who made the stay unforgettable. First up was Dai, the postman who doubles as the village storyteller. He dropped off a parcel next door (none of our business, but he told us anyway) and launched into a yarn about the time a fox nicked his lunch from his van. “Cheeky beggar thought my cheese butty was for him!” he chuckled, eyes twinkling. We ended up chatting over the garden fence for ages, him recommending the best walks up to the nearby hills. Dai’s got this infectious laugh that echoes like a foghorn, and he swore by the footpath behind the cottage for spotting red kites – we saw three the next morning.

Then there was Mrs Evans from the farm down the lane, a widow in her seventies with a handbag full of home-baked flapjacks she insisted we try. “You city folk need fattening up,” she declared, pressing a tin into my hands during our first stroll to the local market town. She regaled us with tales of her late husband’s failed attempts at keeping bees – “Stung more times than he had fingers!” – and pointed out the historic house just a mile off, where some posh folk still do afternoon tea. Her no-nonsense wit had us in stitches; I caught myself thinking how I could do with a bit of her straight-talking back home.

Even the chap at the tiny corner shop, Tom, was a gem. Bald as a coot with a beard down to his chest, he spent ten minutes debating the merits of bara brith versus Welsh cakes while serving our milk. “Bara brith’s for proper thinkers,” he winked, “but don’t tell my missus.” We bumped into him again on a ramble, towing his grandson on a bike, and he waved us over for a natter about the best spots for wild swimming in the streams nearby.

Staying there made me reflect on how we rush through life, barely stopping to chat. These folks reminded me to slow down, savour the quirks. We soaked in the hot tub under the stars one night, replaying Dai’s fox story, and dined outside watching the sun dip over the hills. North Wales worked its charm through its people – can’t wait to go back and catch up with the gang.