I’ll never forget the drive to our three-day getaway in Shropshire – a proper faff from the start. We’d piled into the car in Birmingham, me navigating with my trusty phone, when halfway down the A5, I spilt a full cuppa right into the passenger footwell. “Bloody hell,” I yelped, as my other half swerved laughing, soaking her trainers. Nothing major, just the sort of daft mishap that sets the tone for a proper British holiday. By the time we trundled into Upper Battlefield, near Shrewsbury, we were damp but giggling, pulling up to the 2 Bed Lodge just as the sun dipped behind the Shropshire hills.

First impressions? Cosy as owt. The lodge squatted there like a welcoming hobbit hole, all timber cladding and flower tubs bursting with late-summer pansies. We’d booked it for the peace – rural Shropshire, innit? – but it was the locals who turned arrival into a right character parade. No sooner had we unloaded the boot than old Reg from next door popped over, leaning on his fence with a fag dangling. “Yow bin drivin’ far?” he drawled in that thick Shropshire burr, eyeing our steaming wellies. Reg was a wiry pensioner in a flat cap, probably born in the shadow of that Battlefield monument up the lane – you know, where Charles I got walloped in the Civil War. “Spilt me tea, mate,” I confessed. He cackled. “Tea? Proper stuff, tha wants. I’ll sort yer.” Five minutes later, he’s back with a flask of builder’s brew, strong enough to strip paint. “None o’ that poncy leaf,” he winked. We chatted for ages about his glory days fox-hunting (pre-ban, mind), and how the lodge used to be a gamekeeper’s bothy. Proper yarn-spinner, Reg was – had us in stitches about the time a badger nicked his toolbox.

Inside, we’re barely unpacked when there’s a knock. Enter Maureen, the landowner’s wife, bearing a Victoria sponge “for new uns.” She’s all pearls and perm, the queen of village gossip. “Don’t mind Reg,” she said, plonking the cake down. “He’s harmless, but watch his dog – steals socks.” Over tea, she regaled us with tales of Upper Battlefield’s eccentrics: the bloke down the road who breeds ferrets for fun, and the WI ladies who once entered a marrow in the Shrewsbury Flower Show that won best in class. “Bigger than me leg!” she hooted. We laughed till our sides ached, her stories painting the place as a hotbed of quirky folk – the sort who’d help push your car out of a ditch then charge you a fiver for the privilege.

Next morning, first proper impressions sealed over brekkie on the lodge’s patio, watching mist lift off the fields. But it was bumping into Len at the village shop – a five-minute wander – that really hooked us. Len’s the postie, ruddy-cheeked and chatty as they come. “Stayin’ at t’lodge? Good on yer. Used to deliver telegrams there in ’45.” Telegrams! He spun a yarn about VE Day celebrations, everyone dancing jigs round the old pub. “Shropshire folk,” he said, handing over our milk, “we’re stubborn as mules but loyal as dogs.” By noon, we’d met Dot, the shepherd’s widow walking her collie, who quizzed us on city life (“Traffic? Sounds ’orrible!”) and slipped us tips on spotting otters in the nearby brook.

Those chats, they made the lodge feel like home from the off. Sat there that first evening, pint in hand, I had a quiet moment reflecting – amid the rush of London life, I’d forgotten how these random encounters recharge you. No grand sights, just proper people with their daft tales and warm welcomes. Upper Battlefield’s lodge? It’s not just a stay; it’s a front-row seat to Shropshire’s soul. Can’t wait to go back.