I finally made it to the Executive Lodge With Hot Tub in Ramsgate after a bit of a faff on the drive down from London. Picture this: I'm humming along the A299, windows down, dreaming of that private bubbling tub, when some cheeky seagull decides my windscreen needs a fresh coat of paint. Proper Jackson Pollock job – splat! right across the view. I pull over near Margate, cursing under my breath, and end up at a little car wash run by this bloke called Terry, who looks like he stepped out of a Carry On film. "Blimey, love," he says, eyeing the mess, "that bird's got better aim than my ex-wife's darts." We got chatting while he scrubbed it off – turns out Terry's a Ramsgate lifer, born in the shadow of the Maritime Museum just a stone's throw away. He regales me with tales of the old smuggling days around Pegwell Bay, how his grandad used to hide brandy in the chalk cliffs. "Kent's full of characters like that," he winks, "and you're staying at one of our best-kept secrets up in Manston." By the time I tip him extra and drive off sparkling clean, I'm already buzzing about the quirky locals ahead.

Pulling up to the lodge felt like stumbling into a posh garden shed from a BBC period drama – all sleek wood cladding, fairy lights twinkling against the Thanet sunset, and that hot tub steaming invitingly on the private deck. It's tucked away in a peaceful spot near the old Manston Airport site, close enough to hear the odd plane hum but far from any racket. I dump my bags and head straight for check-in vibes, only to bump into the owner, Mick, who's fiddling with the BBQ area. Mick's this burly Kentish bear of a man, tattooed arms from his days as a fisherman out of Broadstairs Harbour, now semi-retired and renting out these executive beauties. "First time in Thanet, pet?" he booms, handing me the keys with a grin that shows a gold tooth. We chat for ages – he's obsessed with the local oyster shacks down the road, swears by the ones at Pegwell where they still shuck 'em fresh from the bay. "None of that fancy London nonsense," he chuckles, "just proper Kent rock oysters and a pint." Mick shares a yarn about a rival lodge owner nearby who's forever trying to poach his hot tub guests with dodgy deals. "Bloke calls himself 'King of the Coast', but his tubs leak like his stories!" I nearly snorted my tea.

No sooner had I settled in than the neighbours popped over – a couple from the adjacent lodge, Sheila and Ron, proper East Kent eccentrics who'd driven down from Whitstable for a long weekend. Sheila's got this wild perm and a laugh like a foghorn, while Ron's the quiet type with a flat cap and a thermos of builder's tea. They're on their silver wedding do, celebrating with hot tub soaks and fish suppers from the chippie in Ramsgate town centre, just a quick hop away. We end up nattering over the fence about the best spots within spitting distance – they rave about the hidden coves at Dumpton Gap for pebble-hunting at low tide, and how the local pub, The Queens Head not half a mile off, does a cracking Sunday roast with meat from Kentish farms. "Mind the seagulls there, mind," Ron mutters, "they're bolder than pickpockets." Sheila piles on with gossip about the village postman, who delivers more news than mail: "He told me the baker's secret's out – his Kentish cob is laced with smuggled sugar from the old days!" Their stories had me in stitches, painting Ramsgate as this quirky bubble of warmth amid the chilly North Sea breeze.

As I sank into that hot tub that first evening, jets pounding my shoulders, I couldn't help a quiet moment of reflection. Amid the laughter and larger-than-life tales from Terry, Mick, Sheila and Ron, I realised how these chance chats with Kent's salt-of-the-earth folk make a simple lodge stay feel like coming home. No grand adventures needed – just good crack with proper characters, right on my doorstep. Can't wait for day two.