I’ll never forget the drive to Pine Lodge VIP Hot Tub Pet-Friendly near Bridgnorth in Shropshire – a proper faff from the off. We’d loaded up the car with the dog, Monty, and a boot full of crisps and ale, aiming for that perfect three-day escape. But five minutes from the M54, I took a wrong turn onto some narrow B-road, and splat – we hit a massive pothole that sent my favourite travel mug flying, spilling tea all over the passenger footwell. “Brilliant,” I muttered to my other half, Sarah, as Monty barked like we’d invaded France. A classic me blunder, but it set the tone for the quirky Shropshire welcome that unfolded.

Pulling up to the lodge around teatime, the first character we met was Derek, the owner’s mate who was fiddling with the hot tub filter. He’s this wiry bloke in wellies and a flat cap, straight out of a Sunday night telly drama. “You the lot with the spaniel?” he grinned, eyeing Monty like he was sizing up a rival sheepdog. Turned out Derek’s a retired farmhand from just down the lane in Quatt, and he’d popped over to “give the tub a once-over” – code for chatting to newcomers. As he showed us round the cosy wooden lodge, with its beamed ceilings and that steaming hot tub on the private deck overlooking the woods, he launched into tales of local mischief. “Last lot here were from Brum,” he chuckled, “thought the hot tub was a bloody swimming pool – stripped off at midnight and woke the badgers!” We laughed, and Monty immediately claimed the pet-friendly rug by the Aga as his throne.

No sooner had we unpacked than Derek waved over his neighbour, Madge, a pensioner with a peroxide bob and a fag on the go, walking her terrier, Beryl. She’d heard the car crunch on the gravel and reckoned we needed “proper directions” to the nearest chippy in Bridgnorth, all of two miles away. Madge was a gem – lived in the same cottage since the war, she said, and regaled us with stories of the village fete where the vicar once got stuck in the bouncy castle. “Mind you don’t end up like him,” she winked, handing Sarah a Tupperware of her famous Shropshire flapjacks. “Flapjacks with a kick – got a splash of the good stuff in ’em.” We bit into one later; she wasn’t kidding, tasted like Christmas pud had a fling with rum. Monty hoovered up the crumbs, tail wagging like a metronome.

That evening, as the sun dipped behind the Shropshire Hills, we sank into the bubbling hot tub – pure bliss after the drive. But the locals weren’t done. Derek reappeared with a couple of cans of Shropshire Lad ale from the farm shop round the corner, plonking himself on a deckchair for a natter. “You city folk always rush,” he drawled, his accent thick as clotted cream. “Take it slow here – like the Severn, meandering along.” He spun yarns about the time a fox nicked half the vicarage’s chickens during a wedding do at nearby Dudmaston, and how Madge’s Beryl once treed a squirrel that stayed up there for days. Sarah and I were in stitches, Monty sprawled at Derek’s feet like they were old pals. It was all so effortlessly Shropshire – that warmth wrapped in dry wit.

Chatting with them under the stars, I had a quiet moment of reflection. Back home in the rat race, I’m always chasing the next deadline, forgetting to just breathe. Here, with these characters turning our arrival into a proper knees-up, it hit me: sometimes the best holidays aren’t about ticking off sights, but letting quirky locals like Derek and Madge pull up a chair and share their world. Pine Lodge felt like home already, hot tub humming and laughter echoing into the night. What a first impression – mishap and all.