I’ll never forget the drive down to Somerset last month – me behind the wheel of our trusty old Volvo, sat-nav chirping away like it knew better than the A roads. We’d set off from Bristol full of beans, dreaming of lazy walks in the Levels, but about 20 minutes in, disaster struck: a massive pothole just outside Highbridge sent us veering into a layby with a flat tyre. Cue 45 minutes of me wrestling with the jack while the kids laughed from the sidelines and my other half rang the breakdown service. “Classic us,” I muttered, finally getting us back on track. By the time we trundled up to the cosy little detached cottage on the edge of Bridgwater, we were knackered but buzzing with that arrival anticipation – you know, when the place looks even better than the photos?

First impressions? Spot on. It’s one of those welcoming family spots with a garden that practically begs for a cuppa on arrival, all tucked away in a quiet spot perfect for unwinding. We dumped the bags, cracked open a pack of biscuits, and planned our week around one thing: walking. Somerset’s got those flat, dreamy paths through the Somerset Levels that are pure bliss on a good day, and we were determined to make the most of them.

Day one dawned bright and crisp – proper walking weather. We headed out along the River Parrett Trail, just a short stroll from the cottage door. Flat as a pancake, reed beds swaying, with those big skies stretching forever. The kids raced ahead spotting herons, while I lagged behind pretending to admire the wildflowers but really just soaking it in. We clocked up five miles easy, ending with fish and chips from a van near the Huntspill River. Felt like we’d cracked holiday life.

But oh, the British weather – it’s got a wicked sense of humour, doesn’t it? Next morning, grey clouds rolled in thick as fog over the moors. Our grand plan for a longer loop towards Westhay was scuppered by a downpour that turned the paths to mush. “Right,” I said, channelling my inner explorer, “we adapt!” We switched to a shorter circuit along the bridleways behind Chilton Polden, dodging puddles and laughing as the rain lashed our hoods. It was grim at first – sodden socks and all – but then the sun peeked out mid-hike, turning everything steamy and magical. We sheltered under a massive oak, munching soggy sandwiches, and I had one of those gentle moments: here I am, mid-40s, still getting drenched for the joy of it. Why do I love this so much? Probably because it reminds me life’s too short for staying dry and sensible.

The rest of the week flipped like a pancake: glorious blue skies for a breezy yomp around the Shapwick Heath nature reserve paths (birdwatchers’ paradise, those boardwalks), then biblical rain forcing us onto a cheeky loop by the Huntworth Lane tracks, splashing through like kids ourselves. One evening, as the drizzle cleared for a rainbow over the Levels, we trudged back to the cottage caked in mud, collapsing into hot baths with grins a mile wide. Somerset walks aren’t about epic peaks; they’re about that unpredictable rhythm – sun, rain, repeat – and coming home feeling properly alive. Can’t wait to go back.