I’ll never forget the drive to that Exclusive 2 Bedroom Lodge near Salisbury in Wiltshire – a proper cheeky little jaunt that started with me taking a wrong turn onto a single-track lane, ending up nose-to-nose with a sheep farmer’s tractor. “Oi, mate, you lost or just fancying a sheep chase?” he bellowed from his cab, grinning like a Cheshire cat. I reversed for what felt like a mile, laughing at my sat-nav’s betrayal, but it set the tone for a cracking three-day getaway focused on quirky locals who made our first impressions unforgettable.

Pulling up to the lodge that first afternoon, the place was a gem – tucked in a peaceful spot just outside Salisbury, with its own patio begging for a cuppa and those rolling Wiltshire views. But it was the welcome that hooked us. The owner, a wiry chap called Reg with a moustache like a broom swept sideways, was waiting at the gate. “Right, you lot, pets allowed but no fox hunts in me garden, yeah?” he winked, handing over the keys while his border collie, Sid, eyed our spaniel suspiciously. Reg launched into tales of the area, his voice pure West Country gravel. “Lived here 40 year, seen Stonehenge parties back in the day – hippies everywhere, but don’t tell the missus.” We chuckled as he pointed out the best pub a short stroll away, insisting we try the landlord’s “special ale” that “puts hairs on your chest, love.”

First impressions? Reg was a character straight out of a folk tale, and he wasn’t done. Over a quick tour of the lodge – cosy as a hug with its two snug bedrooms and that wood-burner ready for chills – he regaled us with stories of the neighbours. “Old Mrs Hargreaves next door? She’s got a parrot that swears in Latin. Blame the vicar’s funeral.” We were in stitches, unpacking amid his banter, feeling instantly at home.

That evening, we wandered to The Bell, the local boozer Reg raved about, barely half a mile down the lane. Landlord Mick – built like a rugby prop with tattoos from his Navy days – greeted us like long-lost mates. “Wiltshire welcomes! First pint on the house for lodge folk.” As we settled by the fire, Mick spun yarns about the village fete. “Last year, Farmer Jenkins entered his prize pig in the egg-and-spoon race. Oink oink, straight into the vicar’s tent!” The pub was buzzing with locals: there was Dot, the septuagenarian postmistress with a fag perpetually dangling, who cornered me about my “fancy city trainers” on her “proper mud paths.” “You’ll be wanting wellies next, duck – or join the WI for cake and gossip.” Her laugh was infectious, and she slipped us a map scribbled with “secret spots” like the hidden dew pond where kingfishers dart.

Next morning, nursing a gentle hangover (Mick’s ale lived up to the hype), we met the milkman, Terry, chugging up in his electric float. “Morning, holidaymakers! Skimmed or full-fat? None of that posh oat rubbish here.” Terry, with his flat cap and endless patter, told us about the dawn chorus walks by the River Avon – “Otters about, but shh, don’t tell the tourists.” Over doorstep milk and his tale of the time a hot air balloon landed in his barn (“Passengers pissed as newts!”), we felt woven into the fabric of the place.

Strolling back past the lodge, we bumped into Reg again, pruning roses. “Settling in? Told ya, it’s the people what make Wiltshire.” Chatting with him about nothing – the weather, the best pasty spot in Salisbury – I had a quiet moment of reflection. In the rush of city life, I’d forgotten how these random encounters recharge you, turning a simple lodge stay into something soul-warming. First impressions don’t get quirkier or kinder than this corner of Wiltshire.