I’ll never forget the drive to Nyland Lodge in Somerset – a proper faff from the M5, dodging those twisty lanes around Cheddar with the satnav having a right paddy. We’d packed the car with enough cheese dreams to sink a ship (it being Cheddar and all), but halfway there, I managed to spill my flask of tea all over the passenger seat. “Brilliant,” I muttered to my other half, mopping up with a service station napkin. “Arriving like drowned rats.” Still, by the time we trundled into Strawberryfield Park, the sun was peeking through the Quantock clouds, and Nyland Lodge looked like a cosy hug of a cottage – all stone walls, flower baskets tumbling over the porch, and that inviting waft of woodsmoke from somewhere nearby.

We’d barely unloaded the boot when old Bert shuffled over from the lodge next door. He’s the sort of chap you picture in every Somerset village: flat cap perched like it’s glued on, trousers held up with string, and a face like a weathered apple. “New ’ere, eh?” he grinned, eyeing our city plates. “You’ll be wantin’ the pub directions, I reckon.” Turned out Bert’s been tending these parts for donkey’s years, retired farmer with stories longer than the Cheddar Gorge. Over a cuppa he’d insisted on brewing (“None o’ that fancy leaf tea – proper builder’s”), he regaled us with tales of the great flood of ’68 that turned the lanes into rivers. “Mind the badgers at dusk,” he winked. “Cheeky buggers, they are – nicked my spuds last week.” I couldn’t help chuckling; here we were, posh weekenders, getting schooled by a man who chats to foxes.

First impressions? Nyland Lodge felt like slipping into a favourite jumper – warm, unpretentious, with a lounge that screamed “put your feet up.” But it was the locals who made it sing. That evening, as we wandered the five-minute stroll to the village shop (proper old-school, with creaky floorboards and a tombola wheel), we bumped into Sheila behind the counter. She’s the heart of Cheddar, I swear – peroxide curls, leopard-print tabard, and opinions on everything. “Ooh, Londoners?” she cooed, scanning our milk and pasties. “You’ll love it ’ere. None of that rushin’ about. Though watch out for Derek at the pub – he’ll talk your ear off about his prize marrow.” Sure enough, over pints at The White Hart – just a hop from the park – Derek materialised. Ruddy-cheeked giant of a bloke, with a handshake like a vice. “Lodgers from the Lodge, eh? Bert said you’d spilled your tea. Classic!” He roared with laughter, slapping the bar so the crisps jumped. Derek’s a lorry driver turned storyteller, full of Cheddar lore: the caves’ smugglers, the cheese-rolling lunatics up on the hill. “Tried it once meself,” he confessed. “Ended up in AandE with a twisted ankle and a grudge against gravity.”

The next morning, nursing a mild hangover (Derek’s fault, those free chasers), we met quirky young Tom from the farm gate down the lane. He’s the opposite of Bert – mid-twenties, tattooed arms, selling clotted cream and eggs with a cheeky grin. “Strawberryfield’s lot always get the best view of the reservoir,” he said, handing over a punnet of strawberries that tasted like summer. “But don’t tell Bert – he thinks his patch is prime.” Tom’s chat turned to the bats in the gorge (“Party animals, them – million-strong rave every night”) and his failed bid to breed mini goats. “Too stroppy,” he laughed. “Ended up with more nannies than kids.”

By day three, I was reflecting gently over breakfast in the lodge’s sunny kitchen, watching mist lift off the fields. These characters – Bert’s wisdom, Sheila’s bustle, Derek’s bellows, Tom’s spark – they’re Somerset’s secret sauce. Arriving with tea stains and city stress, I left feeling like an honorary local, pondering how a spot of spilled brew led to the best chats of the year. Nyland Lodge? Spot on for first impressions that stick.