I’ll never forget the drive down to our holiday spot in Somerset – what should’ve been a straightforward jaunt from the M5 turned into a comedy of errors thanks to my hopeless sense of direction. Satnav decided to throw a wobbly just past Bridgwater, rerouting us down a series of ever-narrowing lanes that had me white-knuckling the wheel while the kids in the back chanted “Are we there yet?” like a broken record. Then, the pièce de résistance: a rogue sheep decided to photobomb our arrival, strolling right into the middle of the road as if it owned the place. I slammed on the brakes, everyone lurched forward, and my other half quipped, “Well, that’s one way to arrive with a bang.” Cue laughter all round, though I was secretly wondering if this was a sign to turn back.

But oh, what a payoff when we finally pulled up. Nestled in two acres of lush gardens with these cracking views straight across to the Quantock Hills, this timber-framed house hit us like a warm hug. It’s the sort of place that screams countryside idyll – perfect for our rabble of family and mates. We tumbled out of the car, bags flying everywhere, and just stood there gawping. The gardens alone were a stunner: manicured lawns rolling down to wilder bits buzzing with bees, and those hills hazy in the distance like something out of a postcard. First impressions? Bloody marvellous, even after the sheep fiasco.

No sooner had we dumped our stuff inside than we spotted the West Somerset Railway station practically on the doorstep. Talk about serendipity – we legged it over for the late afternoon steam train to Minehead. Chugging through those rolling hills, windows down, steam hissing, it felt like stepping back to the 1950s. The kids were glued to the scenery, pointing out cows and distant buzzards, while I snuck a cheeky pasty from the trolley. Pure nostalgia, and a brilliant way to shake off the travel gremlins.

Next morning, we laced up our boots for one of the walks straight from the garden gate. Peaceful lanes gave way to fields dotted with buttercups, then shady woodlands where the air smelled like damp earth and freedom. We bumped into a few locals walking their dogs, swapped hellos, and felt instantly at home. I had a quiet moment of self-reflection there, leaning on a gate overlooking the Quantocks: life’s too short for stressing over satnavs and sheep; it’s these simple, unhurried jaunts that recharge the batteries. Later, we fancied something different and hired horses for the bridleways – nothing too hardcore, just a gentle plod through sun-dappled lanes. The views were epic, and I only nearly fell off once, which the family still ribs me about.

A quick hop to the edge of Exmoor National Park, just five miles away, sealed the deal. Wild moorland stretched out, valleys plunging deep, and we picnicked by a babbling stream, spotting ponies and keeping an eye out for deer. It’s that effortless mix of adventure and cosiness that makes this corner of Somerset so special. If you’re after a proper escape, hunt down a place like this – mishaps and all, it’s the kind of holiday that lingers. We’re already plotting a return.