I’ll never forget the drive down to the Forest of Dean for our family holiday – or rather, the comedy of errors that got us there. We’d piled into the car with kids, snacks, and enough luggage to sink a ship, only for the sat-nav to have a proper hissy fit halfway through Gloucestershire. It kept rerouting us down these narrow lanes that felt like they hadn’t seen daylight since the war, and at one point, we ended up nose-to-nose with a tractor that looked older than my nan. Cue much honking, waving, and me muttering under my breath while the little ones giggled in the back. But honestly, that little mishap just built the anticipation – by the time we spotted the signs for our holiday spot, we were buzzing.

Pulling up to our ground-floor apartment, I felt that proper holiday glow hit. Free parking right outside was a godsend after the drive, and the place had this welcoming open-plan vibe that screamed “relax and make yourself at home”. It was spot-on for us lot – spacious enough for the kids to charge about without breaking anything, with a kitchen stocked with all the basics for whipping up brekkies or pasta nights. The dining area next door was perfect for those lazy evenings, tucking into fish and chips from down the road while swapping stories.

First impressions? Bloody brilliant – sorry, I mean spot on. We dumped the bags and headed straight out for a wander along the River Wye, just a short stroll away. The Forest of Dean’s got that magical woodland feel, all ancient trees and dappled light, and we spent the afternoon pottering along easy trails, spotting deer and pretending we were explorers. The kids went wild for it, building twig forts and splashing in shallow streams, while I snuck in a moment of peace watching the water go by. Back at the flat, it was cottage life chaos at its finest – one kid demanding jam sandwiches every five minutes, the other turning the lounge into a den with every cushion in sight. I caught myself laughing at the mess, thinking how these are the bits you miss when you’re back in the grind.

Next day, we hit Symonds Yat – not too far, mind – for a gentle river cruise. Gliding past the rapids with buzzards circling overhead, it was pure bliss. The littlest one nodded off on my lap, and I had one of those quiet dad moments, realising how these simple outings recharge the batteries like nothing else. Evenings were for barbecues on the little patio (weather held up, fingers crossed), toasting marshmallows till they were gloriously gooey, and reading bedtime stories till we all conked out.

We tried a bit of forest foraging too, picking blackberries for a crumble that turned out half-decent despite my rubbish baking skills. There was the inevitable chaos – a scraped knee from clambering over roots, and me getting lost on a loop trail for 20 minutes (don’t tell the wife). But that’s the joy of it, isn’t it? No schedules, just muddy wellies, full tummies, and that cosy apartment waiting with its open arms. It was the perfect reset – reminded me family holidays aren’t about perfection, but piling on the memories. Can’t wait to go back.