I’ll never forget the drive down to Porlock – that winding A39 hugging the Somerset coast, with the sea winking at us through the hills. We’d piled the kids, my partner, and our daft Labrador into the car at dawn, full of beans about escaping the daily grind for a proper family break. But about halfway there, disaster struck: a rogue flock of sheep decided to stage a sit-in right across the road near Countisbury. Cue 20 minutes of honking, herding, and me trying to look like I knew what I was doing while the kids chanted “baa-baa black sheep” from the back. Classic us – always turning a simple journey into a minor adventure.

By the time we rolled into Porlock, the sun was breaking through the clouds, and my heart did a little flip. Nestled in the heart of this gorgeous Exmoor village, our first-floor Victorian apartment looked like it was waiting just for us – spacious enough for our rabble of seven (me, partner, three kids, and Nan tagging along), with that cosy character you only get in proper old places. Centrally located, too, so we could wander out for a pint or pasty without even bothering with the car. First impressions? Spot on. It was comfy as anything, well kitted out with everything from a massive telly for rainy days to a kitchen begging for pancake mornings. We dumped the bags, cracked open some local cider, and just breathed it all in. This was going to be bliss.

The next few days blurred into that perfect cottage chaos we crave. Mornings started with brekkie round the big table, syrup everywhere and the dog hoovering up crumbs. Then we’d mooch down to Porlock Weir – a ten-minute stroll – where the kids paddled in the pebbly shallows, building lopsided dams while we sipped coffee at the café, watching fishing boats bob about. One afternoon, we tackled the gentle hike up to Culbone, that tiny church tucked in the woods; the views over the Bristol Channel were mental, and the picnic of cheese ploughman’s from the village shop hit the spot. Evenings were pure simple pleasures: board games that descended into giggles and arguments (Monopoly nearly caused a mutiny), or firing up the barbecue on the little patio if the weather played ball. Porlock’s got this unhurried vibe – popping into the butcher for Exmoor beef, nattering with locals about the best pub quiz, or just flopping on the sofas with a book while rain pattered the windows.

Of course, it wasn’t all Instagram-perfect. The kids turned the lounge into a den of doom with blankets and torches, and I had that moment staring out at the misty moors one evening, thinking, “Blimey, when did we get so knackered juggling school runs and work?” Gentle nudge to self: these daft, messy holidays are what recharge the batteries, aren’t they? No five-star nonsense, just us lot making memories amid the clutter. By the time we packed up, hearts full and wellies muddy, I was already plotting our return. Porlock and its Exmoor magic? Proper family gold.