I finally made it to Elkstone Premier Lodge near Ashbourne after a bit of a faff on the A52. Picture this: I'm trundling along in my trusty old Fiesta, windows down, singing along to some cracking tunes on Radio 2, when – splat! – a rogue pigeon decides to redecorate my windscreen. Not just a speck, mind you, a full-on Jackson Pollock job. I pull over at a layby just past Brailsford, cursing under my breath as I scrub away with a half-empty bottle of screen wash and a crumpled tissue. "Welcome to Derbyshire," I mutter, laughing at my daft self. Twenty minutes later, I'm spotless and pulling up the gravel drive to this absolute gem of a lodge, nestled in the rolling Dales with views that make you forget all about bird bombs.

First impressions? Blimey, Elkstone is proper cosy – think wood-beamed ceilings, a cracking log burner (unlit, but promising winter nights), and a kitchen that screams "whip up a full English." But honestly, it's the people around here that hooked me straight away. No sooner had I lugged my bags in than old Ted from the neighbouring farm ambles over, leaning on his crook like he's stepped out of a postcard. "Yer from down south, eh?" he grins, eyeing my London plates. "Bet you've never seen a proper Peak District welcome." Turns out Ted's been tending sheep here since the war – or so he claims – and he's full of tales about the local badger sets and how the tourists always get lost chasing Bakewell tarts. I offer him a brew, and he regales me with a yarn about the time a coachload of Yanks mistook his prize ram for a statue. "Had to chase 'em off with a pitchfork!" he cackles. I'm in stitches, handing him a biscuit, thinking how these chats beat any spa day.

The next morning, as I step out for a wander along the nearby paths – nothing too strenuous, just enough to stretch the legs after yesterday's drive – I bump into quirky Maureen at the village shop not five minutes down the lane. She's all beehive hairdo and tabard, stacking shelves with jars of local honey and Bakewell puds. "New to Elkstone, love?" she chirps, before I can even grab a pint of milk. Within seconds, she's spilling the beans on everyone: the vicar who cycles to church in wellies, and young Jack, the lad who delivers eggs on a quad bike and swears he's spotted the Ashbourne ghost (a fox, probably). "Mind the cows on the trail," she warns with a wink. "They've got more attitude than my ex." Her laugh's infectious, and suddenly my three-day jaunt feels like I've gatecrashed the best village fete ever. We chat for ages about her award-winning rhubarb – she's got ribbons to prove it – and she slips me a free flapjack. Proper heart of gold, that one.

By afternoon, back at the lodge fiddling with the telly remote, there's a knock – it's the postman, Derek, with a parcel that's clearly not mine but gives him an excuse for a natter. "Heard you met Ted," he says, plonking himself on my doorstep bench. Derek's a wiry sort, fresh from delivering to the farms, and he's obsessed with the Dales' microclimate. "Rains sideways here, lad, but look at them clouds breaking – that's Derbyshire magic." He launches into a monologue about the 1947 snowstorm that buried Ashbourne up to the pub eaves, complete with impressions of stranded villagers. I'm doubled over, tea going cold, as he mimics a sheepdog barking orders. "Stay clear of the bullocks at twilight," he adds seriously. "They think you're auditioning for Strictly."

Sitting there later, pint in hand, gazing at the misty hills from the lodge patio, I have a proper moment of reflection. Back home in the smoke, life's a rush of emails and tube crushes – but here, it's these characters that make it. Ted's yarns, Maureen's gossip, Derek's weather wisdom... they've turned my first day into a proper tonic. Derbyshire's not just peaks and dales; it's the folk who pepper it with stories. Can't wait for day two, but if it stays this cracking, I'll be gutted to leave.