I’ll never forget the drive down to that spacious countryside retreat in Carmarthenshire – the sat-nav decided to have a midlife crisis just as we hit the twisty A roads near Llandovery, sending us on a wild detour through some sheep-dotted lanes that felt like they hadn’t seen tarmac since the war. We arrived a bit later than planned, hearts racing from the near-miss with a rogue lamb, but oh, what a first impression! Nestled on the edge of 60 acres with the Brecon Beacons looming like old mates in the distance, and that hot tub bubbling away like it was waiting just for us – perfect for our family group, promising lazy evenings after days of proper Welsh adventuring.

No sooner had we unpacked than we wandered over to Crychan Forest for a stroll, and that’s where the real magic kicked off. First up was Dai, the local forester with a beard like a hedge and stories longer than the bridleways. “You lot from the city, eh?” he grinned, leaning on his axe like it was a pint glass. Over a cuppa from his flask – stewed so strong it could wake the dead – he regaled us with tales of red kites swooping low enough to nick your sandwiches, and how the forest trails are haunted by the ghosts of Victorian picnickers who got lost chasing fairy lights. We chuckled as he demonstrated his “kite call” – a weird whistle that had us in stitches, even if no birds showed up. Dai’s the sort who makes you feel like you’ve known him forever; by the end, he’d mapped out the best cycling loops on a fag packet and insisted we join him for bog snorkelling practice in Llanwrtyd Wells next day.

Speaking of Llanwrtyd, that’s a five-mile hop away, and it didn’t disappoint. At the village pub, we bumped into Meical, the organiser of the famous Man Versus Horse race – a wiry chap with eyes twinkling like he’d just won it himself. “Horses have four legs, mind, but we’ve got the brains – and the beer,” he winked, pulling us pints of something local and frothy. Over crisps and chat, he shared how the race started as a daft bet in the ’80s, and now draws nutters from everywhere. His mate, Eleri, chipped in with her bog snorkelling wisdom: “It’s not the mud, it’s the eels you watch for!” We were howling, especially when she reckoned our youngest could take the under-10s title. Proper characters, both of them – the kind of folk who turn a quiet pint into a life lesson in not taking yourself too seriously.

Back at the retreat, hot tub steaming under those dark skies perfect for stargazing, I had a quiet moment reflecting on it all. Amid the laughter with these quirky locals, I realised how easy it is to get bogged down in the daily grind back home. Here, chatting with Dai about forest folklore or Meical’s equine rivalries, everything felt lighter, more connected. We even tried a gentle trail run the next morning, spotting kites for real, and ended with a family clay pigeon session in the nearby village – turns out I’m rubbish, but the instructor’s encouragement (and patience) was gold.

If you’re after a holiday where the people steal the show as much as the scenery, this is it. Those conversations linger longer than the hot tub soak – can’t wait to go back and catch up with the gang.