I’ll never forget the drive down to Brent Knoll last month – what should’ve been a straightforward two-hour jaunt from Bristol turned into a comedy of errors when we hit a massive queue on the M5 thanks to some cheeky sheep causing havoc on the Levels. By the time we pulled up, I was starving and slightly frazzled, but honestly, that first glimpse of the place melted it all away. There it was, this cracking four-bed cottage tucked into the peaceful village, sleeping us lot comfortably and looking every bit the cosy retreat we’d been dreaming of.

We’d arrived buzzing with anticipation – I’d spent weeks poring over maps of the footpaths right on the doorstep, picturing lazy ambles through the Somerset Levels. First morning, jackpot: blue skies and a gentle breeze. We laced up our boots and tackled one of those circular routes straight from the garden gate, winding up past dripping hedgerows and out towards the base of Brent Knoll itself. That 137-metre hill looms large, doesn’t it? We puffed our way to the summit, rewarded with jaw-dropping views – Glastonbury Tor hazy in the distance, the Mendips rolling off, and across the Bristol Channel to Wales. Proper postcard stuff. Lunch in one of the two country pubs back in the village hit the spot – ploughman’s and a pint, chatting about how we’d never tire of these quiet trails.

But oh, British weather, you capricious beast. Come afternoon, the clouds rolled in like they owned the place, and by evening it was lashing down. Our grand plan for a coastal stride along Burnham-on-Sea’s seven miles of sand? Scrubbed. Instead, we hunkered down by the fire, mugs of tea in hand, plotting tomorrow’s soggy adventure. Next day dawned drizzly but we’re stubborn types – waterproofs on, we trudged out anyway. The paths turned into muddy slip-and-slides, squelching with every step, but there’s something oddly satisfying about it. We looped around the Knoll again, dodging puddles the size of ponds, laughing when my other half face-planted into a hedge (gently, mind – no casualties).

By day three, the sun peeked out just long enough for us to dash the three miles to Burnham-on-Sea. That promenade’s a gem – Victorian charm, pier jutting into the sea, and the beach begging for a brisk walk. We flew kites in the wind (mine nosedived spectacularly into the surf) and built lopsided sandcastles before the heavens opened once more. Back at the cottage, rain pattering on the windows, I had one of those quiet moments: staring out at the sodden fields, I realised how these weather-whipped hikes had stripped things back. No grand itineraries, just us, the mud, and the Levels’ endless flatness. It’s humbling, innit? Makes you appreciate the good days all the more.

We squeezed in a couple more circuits around the village paths, even in the murk – one grey morning led us past the local shop for emergency pasties, turning a potential washout into a feast on the hoof. Golfers in the group snuck off to nearby courses when the weather played nice, but for me, it was all about those boots-on-the-ground rambles. Leaving Brent Knoll, I felt properly recharged – weather be damned, it’s the unpredictability that makes Somerset walks so alive. Can’t wait to go back.