I’ll never forget the drive to The West Front in Wells, Somerset – a proper faff from the moment we left the motorway. My mate Dave and I had piled into the car with enough cheese toasties to feed a small army, but five miles from Glastonbury, I managed to spill my flask of builder’s tea all over the passenger footwell. “Classic you,” Dave chuckled, as we pulled over near some cows eyeing us suspiciously from a hedgerow. By the time we’d mopped up with a dog-eared tea towel, we were both giggling like idiots, tea leaves stuck to our shoes. Still, it set the tone for a cracking three-day jaunt, and arriving at this gorgeous cathedral-view cottage felt like stumbling into a hug from an old friend.

The West Front itself is a stunner – a cosy stone cottage right in the shadow of Wells Cathedral, its honeyed walls glowing in the late afternoon sun. We parked up on the cobbled street, bags in hand, and there was Madge, the neighbour from two doors down, already peering over her garden wall like she’d been waiting for us. “You the London lot, then?” she barked, without so much as a hello. Madge is a proper character – mid-seventies, with a perm that defies gravity and an apron tied round her waist like a superhero’s cape. She’d spotted our number plate and decided we needed the full Wells lowdown. “Don’t go wandering off to Cheddar Gorge just yet, loves – stick to Vicars’ Close, it’s the oldest street in Europe, mind. And watch out for the swans by the moat; they’re buggers if you’ve got food.”

We dumped our bags inside – the place is pure charm, with low-beamed ceilings, a wood-burner begging for a fire, and windows framing the cathedral’s intricate west front like a living postcard. First impressions? Bliss. But it was Madge who stole the show. Over a cuppa she’d insisted on brewing (Tetley, strong as jet fuel), she regaled us with tales of the cathedral clock, the oldest working one in the world, chiming away since the 14th century. “Heard it strike midnight on my wedding night – husband snored through it, the fool,” she cackled. Dave and I were hooked, perched on her doorstep as the sun dipped behind the turrets.

Next morning, strolling to the cathedral green – all of five minutes’ walk – we bumped into Terry, the butcher from the market square. He’s got a stall piled high with Somerset pork pies and local cider-smoked bacon, face like a weathered rugby ball. “Fresh from the farm, lads – none of your supermarket rubbish,” he boomed, slicing us a sample before we’d even asked. Terry’s the sort who knows everyone’s business; over his counter, he launched into a yarn about the annual flower festival in the cathedral, where locals compete with floral depictions of Bible scenes. “Last year, old Mrs Hargreaves did the Last Supper – Judas looked like my Uncle Bert, complete with the dodgy comb-over.” We howled, buying enough for breakfast and lunch, his laugh echoing off the medieval cloisters.

Then there was Ellie, the barista at the little café tucked by the Bishop’s Palace moat. Barely out of her teens, with tattoos of Exmoor ponies snaking up her arm, she served our flat whites with a wink. “You staying at that West Front place? Jealous – views to die for. Grew up here, but the swans still chase me.” Her chat turned to the palace gardens, just across the water, where peacocks strut and moat swans rule the roost. “Fed one once – nearly took my finger off. Locals call ’em the Vicars’ Guard Dogs.” We spent an hour there, her stories pulling us into Wells’ quirky heartbeat.

By day two’s end, sitting on The West Front’s doorstep with a pint from the on-site honesty bar, cathedral bells tolling softly, I had a quiet moment of reflection. Amid the rush of city life, these encounters – Madge’s no-nonsense warmth, Terry’s banter, Ellie’s spark – reminded me how strangers can turn a holiday into something real. No grand adventures needed; just good folk and first impressions that linger like the scent of fresh scones. Somerset’s got it spot on.