I’ll never forget the drive to Roe Deer Lodge in Somerset – a proper faff from the M5, dodging those cheeky tractor drivers who think the A39 is their personal racetrack. I’d packed the car with enough cheese and biscuits to feed a village, only for the satnav to chuck a wobbly just outside Bridgwater. “Recalculating,” it droned, as I ended up in a muddy layby staring at a cow who looked more lost than me. Classic me, turning a 20-minute jaunt into an hour-long comedy of errors. But then, there it was: Roe Deer Lodge, tucked away in a quiet spot near the Somerset Levels, all cosy stone and thatched roof, like it’d been waiting for a numpty like me.

Stepping inside for the first time, I was hit by that instant “ahh” feeling – wood burner crackling (even in summer, Brits love a fire), beams overhead that made me duck like a giraffe in a phone box, and a kitchen that screamed “whip up a fry-up.” But honestly, the real magic of those first 24 hours wasn’t the lodge itself; it was the parade of quirky locals who wandered into my holiday like extras from a BBC sitcom. Somerset folk have this way of turning a hello into a life story, and I was hooked from the off.

First up was Mrs. Jenkins, the neighbour who popped over with a jug of her “famous” elderflower cordial not five minutes after I’d unloaded the boot. “You from up country, love?” she asked, eyeing my London plates with suspicion. Eighty if she was a day, with a perm that could survive a hurricane and stories about the 1980s floods that had the Levels looking like the Thames. “We rowed to the pub back then,” she chuckled, handing over a glass that tasted like fizzy heaven. We ended up on her porch – well, her lean-to – chatting about roe deer sightings (hence the lodge name, apparently they’re everywhere at dusk). She reckoned one had nicked her washing once. I laughed so hard I nearly spilled the cordial. Proper character, that one; made me feel like I’d known her for years.

Then there was Tom, the postman who doubled as the village oracle. He rocked up mid-morning with a parcel I wasn’t even expecting (turns out I’d ordered teabags online in a panic). “You settling in, then?” he grinned, leaning on his bike like it was a bar stool. Tom’s got this wild beard and tales of Glaston Tor – not that I ventured far, but he swore the fairy folk nick your socks if you leave them out. We got onto the best pub grub within a spit of the lodge, and he swore by the pie at the local in Bridgwater. “None of that fancy nonsense,” he said. “Just proper meat and mash.” By the time he cycled off whistling, I’d got the lowdown on every hedgerow blackberry patch for miles. Bloke’s a walking Ordnance Survey map with a side of dad jokes.

Come afternoon, I wandered down to the nearby farm shop – five minutes’ stroll, if that – and bumped into Big Dave, the chap running it. Built like a hay bale, with hands like shovels, he was stacking cider bottles while regaling a queue with his beef about “they newfangled electric cars.” “What’s wrong with a good old diesel, eh?” he boomed, spotting me. Turned out Dave’s family’s been on that land since the Domesday Book, or so he claimed. We got chatting over a slab of local cheddar (divine, that was), and he insisted on giving me a free jar of his nan’s chutney. “For the city lad,” he winked. “Stops the homesickness.” His missus chipped in from behind the counter, teasing him about his failed bid to grow pineapples in the polytunnel. “Somerset’s too damp for tropical, you daft sod!” The whole shop erupted, and suddenly I’m part of the banter, swapping stories about my disastrous attempt at gardening back home.

That evening, as the sun dipped over the Levels, painting everything gold, I sat on the lodge patio with a cuppa, reflecting on how these chance chats had turned arrival day into something special. In the rush of city life, you forget how a few words from strangers can make a place feel like home. No grand adventures needed – just good folk, daft yarns, and that Somerset warmth. Can’t wait to go back and pick up where we left off.