I’ll never forget the drive down to Somerset – me behind the wheel, sat-nav chirping away like it owned the road, and then, just past the M5 turn-off, we hit a proper snarl-up. Some cheeky diversion had us crawling along B-roads, cows eyeing us lazily from the fields, and my other half suggesting we turn back for a caravan park. A right faff, but honestly, it built the anticipation. By the time we spotted the thatched roof peeking through the hedges near Bridgwater, I was grinning like an idiot. Pulled up, and blimey, first impressions? Spot on. Cosy little detached cottage, all low doorways and welcoming vibes, tucked away in a quiet spot with nothing but birdsong and the odd tractor rumble.

We’d booked it for a proper do-nothing break, you see – no grand plans, just us, some books, and the luxury of slowing right down. Unpacked in ten minutes flat (mostly wine and crisps), then straight out to the garden. It’s a belter – enclosed, private, with loungers begging you to flop down and a patio perfect for morning coffee. First morning, I claimed a spot under the apple tree, mug in hand, watching butterflies flit about. Didn’t even bother with shoes half the time; grass underfoot felt like holiday heaven.

Days blurred into this blissful rhythm of bugger all. Breakfast whenever – bacon sarnies on the patio, sun warming our faces. Then reading. I demolished a battered paperback thriller, only pausing to brew tea or flick through the birds on the feeder. The garden became our world: afternoon naps on the loungers, dozing to the hum of bees; lazy lunches of cheese and biscuits, feet up, debating nothing in particular. One evening, we lit the barbecue (nothing fancy, just bangers and a bottle of red), and sat there as the sky turned pink, not a care beyond whether to fetch a jumper.

There was this one moment of gentle self-reflection, sprawled on the grass with a cider, staring at the clouds. Back home, I’m always rushing – emails, deadlines, the lot. Here? Time stretched out. Made me realise how rare it is to just *be*. No screens, no schedules. We wandered the nearby paths once or twice, spotting pheasants and breathing in that fresh Somerset air, but mostly, we stayed put. The cottage garden wrapped us up like a hug; hammock swings for reading, shady corners for pondering life’s small joys.

By the last day, neither of us wanted to pack. That small mishap on the journey? Best thing that happened – made the peace even sweeter. If you’re after switching off proper, find a spot like this. Somerset’s got the knack for it. We drove off recharged, already plotting the next lazy escape.