I’ll never forget the drive down to that tucked-away spot in Somerset – a proper faff from the M5, dodging those narrow lanes that twist like a drunkard’s stagger. We’d set off full of beans, me belting out old Oasis tunes to keep the kids entertained, when wouldn’t you know it, the sat-nav decided to have a midlife crisis and guided us straight into a muddy farm track puddle that nearly swallowed the car’s wheel. A quick reverse and a lot of swearing under my breath (well, some of it), and we were back on track, hearts racing but laughing about it already.

Pulling up that mile-long track had us buzzing with anticipation – what if it was a damp old shack? But blimey, first impressions were spot on. It’s this cosy annexe to a working farmstead, nestled in a sheltered valley on Knighton Farm, with Exmoor’s wild drama all around. Cows, pigs, sheep, alpacas, goats, geese, and chickens mooching about the yard like they own the place (which they probably do). The lounge overlooks it all, woodburner at the ready, and you pop up two steps to a quirky dining nook, with the kitchen gazing out over a garden that just warms the cockles.

We’d come for proper walking adventures, the kind where you lace up boots and let Somerset’s paths do the talking. Day one, the weather gods smiled: crisp blue skies, perfect for the River Barle. With fishing rights right there, we skipped the rods and hiked the banks instead, dodging brambles and spotting dippers flitting about. That valley trail winds gentle at first, then climbs with views that make you gasp – heather moorland stretching out, buzzards wheeling overhead. We picnicked by a babbling bit, kids charging ahead like feral explorers.

But oh, the British weather – it’s got a wicked sense of humour, doesn’t it? Next morning, a proper deluge rolled in, turning our ambitious Exmoor ridge hike into a comedy of errors. Plans for the high paths above the farm? Scrubbed. Instead, we layered up in waterproofs (why do I always pack one too few?) and tackled the lower tracks around the farmyard. Mud squelching underfoot, rain lashing sideways, but it was brilliant in its own way – geese honking protests, alpacas eyeing us like we were the intruders. We looped back via a sheltered woodland path, steam rising off everything as the clouds lifted just enough for a rainbow. Laughed our heads off slipping about, me resembling a drowned rat.

One afternoon, the sun teased us out again for a stomp up to the open moor edge – not too far, just a couple of miles’ puff to where the valley meets the wilds. Wind whipping, but those panoramic sweeps over the Barle and beyond? Magic. Sat on a tussock, flask of tea in hand, I had a proper moment of reflection: rushing about life back home, always chasing the next thing, when this – getting soaked, boots caked, family giggling – is what it’s about. Simple, innit?

By week’s end, we’d notched up soggy slogs and sunny saunters, every weather flip forcing us to adapt and appreciate. Somerset’s walks, especially from a farm like that, are forgiving yet fierce – just like the weather. Can’t wait to go back and let the rain decide again.