I’ll never forget the drive to Broad Campden – what should’ve been a straightforward jaunt from the M40 turned into a comedy of errors. Sat nav had me convinced I’d missed the turning for Chipping Campden, so there I was, white-knuckling it down a single-track lane that felt more like a sheep’s personal runway. Then, just as I spotted the first honey-coloured cottages peeking through the hedgerows, a rogue pheasant decided to play chicken right in front of the bumper. Brakes screeched, heart raced, and I ended up half in a ditch, laughing at my own daftness while a local farmer gave me a cheery wave from his tractor. Proper Cotswolds welcome, that.

By the time I finally pulled up outside this gorgeous 300-year-old Grade II listed thatched cottage – a former village smithy, no less – I was buzzing with that mix of exhaustion and excitement you only get on holiday arrivals. The anticipation had been building all week: visions of roaring fires, cosy nooks, and zero alarm clocks. And blimey, it didn’t disappoint. Stepping through the low doorway, I was hit with this instant wave of charm – it’s bursting with character, from the massive inglenook fireplace that could swallow a sofa whole, to the wonky stone staircase that had me giggling as I lugged my bags up, convinced I’d end up in Narnia.

First impressions? Pure magic. The place wrapped around me like a warm hug after that chaotic drive. I dumped my stuff and beelined for the kitchen, firing up the kettle for a proper cuppa while taking in the views over the rolling fields from the window. It’s the sort of spot that makes you breathe deeper, you know? No traffic hum, just birdsong and the odd distant moo. That evening, I lit the fire – it crackled to life like it’d been waiting for me – and cracked open a bottle of red, feet up on the sofa. Felt like I’d stepped into a postcard.

Next morning, still riding high on those first impressions, I wandered the five-minute stroll into Broad Campden’s heart. Picked up fresh scones and clotted cream from the village shop – none of your supermarket rubbish – and munched them on a bench by the church, watching dog-walkers and cyclists potter by. Popped over to Chipping Campden too, just a hop away, for a gander at the high street’s quirky tearooms and that stunning market hall. Grabbed a pint at the Eight Bells later, swapping stories with locals about the best blackberry-picking spots. It’s all so effortlessly lovely here, the kind of place that nudges you into slowing down.

Looking back, that mishap-filled arrival was the perfect icebreaker. Reminded me I’m not cut out for Formula 1, but dead good at embracing the unexpected. If you’re after a holiday that feels like coming home to someone else’s fairy tale, this corner of the Cotswolds is it. I’m already plotting a return – sans pheasants, hopefully.