I’ll never forget the drive down to Somerset last month – sat nav insisting we take some winding B-road through the Quantocks, only for us to end up behind a flock of sheep that decided to stage a full-on protest right in the middle of the lane. Me, swearing under my breath (well, quietly to myself), and my other half laughing like it was the best comedy sketch ever. An hour late, but by the time we crested that final hill and spotted the medieval village nestled at the foot of Dunster Castle, all was forgiven. The place looked like something out of a storybook, all higgledy-piggledy roofs and flower baskets, and there was this buzz of anticipation – proper holiday excitement bubbling up as we pulled up to the house.

It’s this gorgeous, cosy spot smack in the heart of the village, the sort of place that wraps you up like a warm hug from the off. First impressions? Spot on. We dumped the bags, brewed a cuppa, and within minutes were out the garden gate, straight into Dunster Deer Park. That first walk was pure magic – rolling hills, ancient oaks, and deer ambling about like they owned the place. The air was crisp, the sun peeking through, and I thought, yeah, this is why we do these getaways.

But Somerset weather, eh? It’s got a mind of its own. Day two dawned bright, so we tackled a chunk of the Coleridge Way from the gate – that path winds up through woodlands and out onto heather-strewn moors with views that make your chest ache a bit. We packed a picnic, felt like proper explorers, laughing about how I’d nearly twisted an ankle on a hidden root (classic me, all enthusiasm, no coordination). By afternoon, though, the clouds rolled in thick as clafoutis, and we were dodging sudden downpours back to the house, soaked but giggling.

Next morning, proper biblical rain. Plans for a long hike to Holnicote Estate? Scrubbed. Instead, we layered up in waterproofs and embraced the squelch – trudged along the paths into the deer park anyway, where the mist turned everything ethereal, like walking through a Brontë novel. Mud up to our knees, but there’s something oddly satisfying about it, isn’t there? That gentle rhythm of boots on wet earth, chatting nonsense to keep warm. We even spotted a fox darting through the undergrowth, which felt like a little gift from the universe.

By day three, the sun was back, luring us out for a stomp towards the coast road – not far, just enough to catch glimpses of Bossington Beach through the drizzle that threatened but never quite arrived. The weather kept us on our toes, flipping from blue skies to scudding showers, forcing impromptu tea room stops in the village (those scones! Cream first, obviously). It made me reflect a bit, trudging home one evening as the light faded over the castle – how these unpredictable walks mirror life, really. You pack for sun, prepare for rain, and end up loving the muddy middle ground. We didn’t need fancy plans; the paths from the gate delivered adventure enough, rain or shine. Can’t wait to go back – next time, I’m investing in better wellies.