I finally made it to Suffolk after a bit of a faff on the A14 – nothing major, just a rogue sheep blocking the lane near Bury St Edmunds, turning my sat-nav into a comedian with its endless recalculations. "Recalculating," it droned, as if I hadn't noticed the woolly roadblock. Three days at Damsel Shepherds Hut was meant to be my quiet escape, but from the off, it was all about the quirky locals who turned arrival into a proper Suffolk yarn.

Pulling up to the hut on that crisp autumn afternoon, I was greeted not by silence, but by Reg, the chap who runs the nearby farm. He's in his late 70s, I'd guess, with a flat cap perched like it's glued on and trousers held up by pure willpower and a braces combo. "You the city slicker in the tin tabernacle?" he bellowed, eyeing my hire car like it was a spaceship. I laughed, explaining I'd come from London for some peace. "Peace? In Suffolk? Lad, you've parked next to the best gossip hub this side of the Lark Valley." Reg proceeded to regale me with tales of his prize pigs – Winston and Churchill, he called them – who apparently escaped last summer and gatecrashed the village fete. "Winston ate half the vicar's hat," he chuckled, slapping his thigh. We chatted for a good half-hour by the hut's wooden steps, him puffing on a roll-up, me sipping tea from a thermos I'd wisely packed. First impressions? The hut's cosy nook felt like a portal to old Suffolk, but Reg was the real star, his weather-beaten face creasing with every punchline.

Barely had I unpacked – chucking my bag onto the surprisingly comfy daybed inside – when Dot wandered over from her cottage across the field. She's Reg's sister, sharp as a tack at 82, with a Suffolk accent thick enough to spread on toast. "Heard the car," she said, no hello needed. Armed with a Tupperware of her famous flapjacks – "None of that shop-bought rubbish" – she plonked down on the bench outside the hut and launched into the local lore. Apparently, the shepherds huts round here date back to when folk actually shepherded, not glamped. "This one's Damsel 'cause it was for the lasses minding lambs," she winked. We got onto the Bury St Edmunds market, just a short hop away, where she'd haggled a punter down from £5 to 20p for a dodgy cabbage last week. "Bargain or theft? You decide," she grinned, her eyes twinkling. Her stories flowed like the nearby river: the time the flood turned the lanes into canals, or how the abbey ruins whisper ghosts at midnight. I was hooked, forgetting my phone was even in my pocket.

As evening drew in, with the hut's wood-burner crackling (I'd mastered lighting it after Reg's crash course – "Twist the kindling like you're wringing a neck"), along came young Ollie, the farmhand who's more whippet than man. Mid-20s, with a beard that could hide a family of voles and a tattoo of a pint glass on his forearm. "Fancy a pint at the Nutshell?" he asked, nodding towards the village pub a mile off. I declined – first night, settling in – but he stayed for a natter anyway. Ollie's the dreamer type: wants to turn the farm into a glamping empire but can't decide between shepherd huts or yurts. "Reg says yurts are for hippies," he mimicked perfectly, before sharing how he once entered his marrow in the village show and it won third 'cause the judge was blind in one eye. We laughed till my sides hurt, the sunset painting the fields gold behind him.

Lying there that first night, wrapped in the hut's woolly blankets, listening to owls hoot, I had a quiet moment of reflection. Back in London, I'm always rushing, chin-deep in emails and noise. Here, five minutes in, and it's these characters – Reg's belly laughs, Dot's cheeky wisdom, Ollie's madcap plans – who've made arrival feel like coming home. Suffolk doesn't do subtle; it throws its eccentrics at you like confetti, and I'm already plotting a return. What a cracking start.