I’ll never forget the drive down to Taunton in Somerset last month – a proper British road trip that started off brilliantly with the sun glinting off the M5, but then turned into a comedy of errors when we hit a massive tailback just past Bristol. Some cheeky diversion meant we crawled along for what felt like hours, with me drumming my fingers on the steering wheel and my other half cracking jokes about packing a picnic for the hard shoulder. By the time we rolled into town, we were knackered but buzzing with that holiday anticipation, you know? The kind where you’re already imagining cosy evenings and cracking views.

Pulling up roadside, we grabbed our bags and headed up the stairs to this cracking first-floor flat – just the ticket for our little group of mates. It’s got this subtle nod to its days as part of an old music shop, which gave it a quirky charm right from the off. First impressions? Spot on. We pushed through the door, wandered down the hallway, and bam – there’s this massive, bright bathroom to freshen up in. Perfect after the drive. The views from the windows? Gorgeous sweeps over the rooftops, with Exmoor National Park teasing us in the distance. We dumped our stuff and cracked open a brew, plotting our walking adventures.

Day one dawned crisp and clear, so we laced up our boots and headed out for a gentle stomp along the River Tone. Taunton’s got these fab paths right on its doorstep – flat enough for a laugh, with swans eyeing us suspiciously and pub gardens tempting us already. We pushed on towards the edges of Exmoor, maybe three miles out, where the terrain starts to roll a bit. Proper invigorating, with gorse buzzing and skylarks overhead. Lunch was a sneaky pasty from a local spot, eaten on a bench with the sun warming our faces. I felt a proper sense of calm there, reflecting on how I never make enough time for this back home – just me, the mud on my trainers, and no emails pinging.

But oh, the weather – classic Somerset, that. By afternoon, the clouds rolled in like they owned the place, and we got a proper soaking on the way back. Plans for an evening hike up to the Quantocks? Scrubbed. Instead, we dashed into a cosy café near Vivary Park, dripping wet and giggling like kids. The next day was no better – grey skies and a mizzle that turned our intended loop around French Weir into a splashy puddle-jump. We adapted, sticking to urban trails through the park, dodging dog walkers and pretending we were on some epic survival trek. It forced us to slow down, chat more, and appreciate the flat’s snug vibe when we got back, towelling off and whiling away the rain with board games and tea.

By the end of the week, after a few more weather-whipped walks – one glorious sunny jaunt along the canal towpath, another rained-off ramble near the castle – I was hooked. Somerset’s walks are gold for the soul, especially when the forecast keeps you on your toes. Left me pondering how a bit of unpredictability makes the best memories. Can’t wait to go back.