I’ll never forget the drive to Oak Lodge in Shropshire – a proper British road trip comedy of errors. I’d set off from Shrewsbury early, sat-nav chirping away, only for a rogue sheep to dart across the lane just past the A5 turn-off. Slammed the brakes, heart in mouth, and ended up with a muddy splatter on the windscreen from its fleeing hooves. No harm done, but it set the tone: this three-day jaunt was going to be full of unexpected characters, not your average quiet getaway.

Pulling up to Oak Lodge around teatime, I was knackered but buzzing. It’s this cosy little detached lodge tucked in a peaceful spot near Shrewsbury, all stone walls and flower baskets, with the woodburner already stacked for later. First impressions? Blissful rural charm, the kind that makes you exhale after city life. But it was the locals who turned arrival into a proper chinwag fest, each one quirkier than the last.

No sooner had I unloaded the boot than old Ted from the neighbouring farm ambled over, leaning on his crook like he’d stepped out of a postcard. “New ’ere, are ya?” he grinned, eyeing my London plates. Ted’s the sort who’s farmed these hills since the war, full of tales about “they fancy alpacas down the lane what eats more than my tractor runs on diesel.” We got chatting over a cuppa he’d brewed in his Thermos – strong as tar, mind – and he regaled me with how the lodge used to be the gamekeeper’s bothy. “Mind the owls at night,” he winked. “They’ve got opinions.” I chuckled, already hooked on his dry Shropshire wit.

Then there was Maureen, the postie who dropped by with a parcel I wasn’t even expecting (turns out it was junk mail, but she made it sound urgent). She’s a whirlwind on her bike, helmet askew, with a laugh that echoes off the hills. “You staying long? Good on ya – beats them tourists clogging up Ironbridge.” We bonded over the best chippy in Shrewsbury (Horton’s, apparently, none of your fancy fish and chips). Maureen’s got stories for days: her nan’s ghost supposedly haunts the old abbey ruins nearby, and she swears she’s seen it on foggy mornings. “Don’t fret, love, it only nicks your biscuits.” Proper daft, but it had me in stitches, peering at shadows round the lodge that evening.

As dusk fell, I wandered down to the nearby pub – The Fox, a five-minute stroll – for a pint of Shropshire Lad. Behind the bar was landlord Pete, a bearded bear of a man with tattoos from his Navy days. “First time in these parts?” he boomed, pulling a perfect head. Pete’s the heart of the village, dishing out gossip like it’s bar snacks. He introduced me to “Mad” Mick, the carpenter fixing the pub’s wonky door, who claimed his tools were haunted by a Victorian poltergeist. “Hammer flies off on its own, see? Blame the ghost of Lord Berwick.” We three debated it over crisps – Pete the sceptic, Mick the believer, me the wide-eyed southerner lapping it up. “Shropshire folk are salt of the earth,” Pete said, “but we’ve got more eccentrics per square mile than anywhere.”

Back at the lodge that night, woodburner crackling, I sat with a whisky reflecting on it all. Amid the laughter, there was a quiet pang – how often do I rush through life without these random connections? These quirky souls, with their tall tales and warm welcomes, made my first hours feel like belonging. Shropshire’s not just pretty countryside; it’s alive with characters who pull you in. Can’t wait for day two.