Gossip, scandal and crab queues – what life is really like in the UK’s ‘happiest town’...

Woodbridge, the happiest town in the UK? Let’s not go handing out the medals just yet.

As someone who has lived here for over a decade, I can confirm it’s delightful. But the happiest?

Not according to the school-run mums fighting the overzealous parking warden on Peterhouse Crescent. Not for the teenager who can’t buy a cheeky vape in our corner shop because the guy on the till plays golf with his dad. Not for the dog walkers playing tug-of-war on a particularly lethal patch of mud on the river path. Not for the brave souls attempting to parallel park on Market Hill under the eye of the retirees enjoying a flat white at the Wild Strawberry Cafe. And not for us “middle-class women of a certain age” braving the dating scene after divorce. But we will get to that.

The accolade is lovely, of course, and I’m not here to rain on Woodbridge’s parade. After all, this town does have an undeniable charm. Where else can you find a collection of cosy pubs with roaring fires and local ales, gorgeous riverside walks and independent shops, excellent schools with glowing Ofsted reports – and The Crown’s delicious Porn Star Martini?

But let’s be realistic. Even in the happiest town, the bins need taking out, birds still poop on your freshly washed car, and the wifi still cuts out right when you’re about to win an eBay auction. The picturesque, cobbled streets? A joy – until you try navigating them in heels after a wine or two. And let’s not forget the unspoken rivalry over whose front garden has the neatest lawn. Happiness, it seems, doesn’t include escaping the judgemental glare from over the fence when you give “no mow May” a go for, erm, six months.

It’s also worth mentioning that Woodbridge’s attraction sometimes leans towards the quaintly eccentric. There’s a regular queue outside Paul’s Fish Box (yes, that’s its name) that seems to be equally about wanting the Cromer crab and catching up on local gossip. And then there’s the small-town politics, a blend of bake-off betrayals, slightly-too-competitive quiz nights, and the occasional eyebrow raised over someone using non-organic mulch in their flowerbed. Nothing too explosive, but enough to keep the town humming with pleasingly inconsequential drama.

So let’s move on to the dating scene. After all, happiness and love are supposed to be closely related. Which, quite frankly, makes me downright miserable.

Sadly, the Bridget Joneses among us can’t help but notice that while the town offers an abundance of pleasing distractions, the dating scene is somewhat… limited. The pool is less Olympic-sized and more paddling.

I’ve given up trying to hide my failed dating exploits, however. The 5ft 4in jockey who stood on tiptoes to kiss me, the farmer who took me to birth a calf on our second date, the landowner with the terrifying gun collection, the conman who’d done a stint at Hollesley Bay with Jeffrey Archer. After all, it’s hard to keep a low profile in a place where everybody knows everyone’s business.

But while some of us couldn’t stick a curtain twitcher, this is also the kind of place where people rally around for good causes and genuinely care about their neighbours. So, I guess that although Woodbridge isn’t perfect, that’s probably what makes it perfect for me. It’s a place where even the peculiarities and frustrations add to the charm.

And although the dating pool might be more of a puddle, who needs romance when you’ve got a perfect cocktail, a riverside stroll, and the kind of gossip that keeps you laughing all the way to the fishmonger?

Happiness isn’t about perfection. For me, it’s about character, curiosities and crab queues. In that, Woodbridge is practically an overachiever.