I’ll never forget the drive to Meadow Lodge @ Berrys Place Farm in Blakeney – a proper faff from the moment we left the motorway. We’d packed the car with enough cheese ploughman’s and crisps to see us through a siege, but five minutes in, I managed to spill half a thermos of builder’s tea all over the passenger footwell. “Classic me,” I chuckled to my mate Dave, who was already moaning about the soggy map (yes, we’re that old-school). By the time we trundled down the narrow lanes towards Blakeney, the sun was dipping low, and we were both knackered but buzzing for our three-day escape.

Pulling up to the lodge felt like stumbling into a postcard. Nestled on Berrys Place Farm, it’s this cosy stone cottage with a thatched roof that screams “proper Norfolk hideaway” – wait, no, Blakeney’s smack in Gloucestershire’s Forest of Dean, isn’t it? Those twisty roads had me all discombobulated. Anyway, the first impressions hit like a warm hug: flower tubs bursting with geraniums, a gravel drive crunching under the tyres, and that fresh countryside whiff of hay and damp earth. We unloaded amid bleating sheep in the next field, and as I fumbled the keys, out pops the owner, Reg, a wiry chap in wellies with a face like a weathered oak and a grin wider than the Severn.

“Alright, you lot? Made it without getting lost in the lanes, then?” Reg boomed, shaking hands like we were long-lost cousins. He’s the sort of local who’s got stories etched into every wrinkle – born and bred in Blakeney, knows every badger sett and which pub does the best pork scratchings. Over a quick tour of the lodge (beamed ceilings, a cracking Aga in the kitchen, and views over rolling meadows), he regaled us with tales of the farm’s history. “This place has seen more cider than a Gloucester rugby match,” he winked, pointing out the old milking parlour now turned into a games barn. Light-hearted chap, Reg – when I mentioned my tea spill, he slapped my back and said, “Lad, that’s nothing. Last week, old Bert from the village drove his tractor into the duck pond chasing a rogue goose. Proper comedy gold!”

We hadn’t even unpacked properly when quirky locals started filtering into the picture. Reg insisted we pop over to the farm shop round the corner – “Five minutes’ stroll, mind the cow pats” – where we met Mabel, his wife, a no-nonsense firecracker with a pinny and a laugh like a foghorn. She thrust homemade flapjacks at us (“None of that shop-bought rubbish!”) and launched into a yarn about the village fete. “You should’ve seen young Tommy last year, tried to win the marrow contest with one nicked from my veg patch. Cheeky sod got disqualified but ate the evidence!” Dave and I were in stitches, munching away as Mabel quizzed us on city life. “London? All concrete and rush. Here in Blakeney, we’ve got time for a natter and a pint.”

That first evening, as the sun set golden over the meadows, we wandered to the Blakeney village pub – The Oak, naturally, just a hop down the road. Propping the bar was Sid, the local postman turned storyteller, nursing a shandy and regaling punters with ghost tales from the old Blakeney Hill woods. “Spirits of the charcoal burners, they are,” he whispered conspiratorially, eyes twinkling. “Saw one meself, floating like mist. But don’t fret – they only haunt folk who nick the blackberries.” His deadpan delivery had us howling, especially when he confessed his own mishap: “Tried picking sloes for gin once, fell arse-over-tit into a bramble bush. Still got the scars!” We chatted for hours, swapping city woes for his gems about Forest poachers and the best spots for wild garlic foraging.

Sitting there later, pint in hand, gazing back at Meadow Lodge’s twinkling windows, I had a quiet moment of reflection. Amid the laughter and these larger-than-life characters – Reg’s warmth, Mabel’s bustle, Sid’s mischief – I realised how rare it is to feel instantly at home with strangers. City life’s all haste; Blakeney’s folk remind you life’s for the quirks and the chats. First impressions? Bloody brilliant. Can’t wait to go back.