I’ll never forget the drive down to Somerset – we’d packed the car with enough cheese ploughman’s and flasks of tea to see us through a siege, but halfway there, just past Taunton, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us looping round some back lane that looked like it hadn’t seen tarmac since the war. Me swearing under my breath (well, almost), my other half laughing like a drain, and the dog whining from the boot. Classic us. But as we finally crested the hill into Nether Stowey, that first glimpse of the Quantocks unfolding like a green rumple in the distance? Pure magic. Hearts lifted, we trundled the last mile and a half to this detached characterful cottage tucked into 4.5 acres of its own little world. From the moment we pulled up, it felt like slipping into an old, comfy cardie – welcoming, a bit quirky, and just right for us two and the dog.

We’d been craving a proper unwind, you know, the sort where you swap deadlines for dog walks and Netflix binges for birdwatching. First impressions didn’t disappoint: the garden hummed with bees, and inside it was all cosy nooks begging for a cuppa. We dumped the bags and headed straight out for a gentle ramble up the Quantock Hills – they’re right on the doorstep, miles of paths that meander through bracken and gorse with views that make you stop and gawp. We packed a picnic (leftover pork pies, naturally) and found a spot overlooking the valley, wind in our hair, feeling miles away from the daily grind.

Nether Stowey itself is a gem, just a short stroll or drive away. Popped into the village for a pint at one of the welcoming pubs – proper ale, friendly chatter about the footie – and stocked up on essentials from the little shops. It’s got this poetic vibe, being Coleridge’s old haunt; we wandered up to the Norman castle mount for a breather, and blimey, the panorama was epic – Brecon Beacons hazy on the horizon, Glastonbury Tor poking up like a wizard’s hat, and the North Somerset coast shimmering. No rush, though; we ambled back for cottage chaos: attempting bread-making (disaster, dough everywhere), the dog stealing socks mid-tumble-dry, and evenings curled up with a bottle of red by the fire, plotting tomorrow’s nothing-much.

One highlight was a mooch to Kilve Beach, only four miles off – fossil-hunting on those pebbly shores, picking through ancient stones like kids at Christmas. We found a few ammonites (or so we reckon), then fish and chips on the way home. Simple pleasures, innit? No grand plans, just us pottering about, rediscovering that quiet joy in each other’s company. I caught myself one misty morning, tea in hand on the patio, thinking how we’d let life’s busyness steamroll these moments lately. This break was a gentle nudge: slow down, breathe the bracken air, laugh at the mishaps. Somerset’s got that knack – turns a daft couple’s getaway into something properly restorative. We’re already plotting a return.