I’ll never forget the drive down to Somerset – one of those classic British road trips where the sat-nav decides to have a midlife crisis just as you hit the M5. We’d packed the car with enough books, snacks, and wine to last a siege, but about 20 miles from Taunton, it threw a proper wobbly, rerouting us through some winding lanes that felt like they hadn’t seen tarmac since the war. A quick stop for a flapjack and a deep breath sorted it, and soon we were trundling into those lush, rolling hills, anticipation bubbling up like a kettle on the boil. What if it was all a bit too Instagram-perfect? As it turned out, first impressions were spot on – pulling up to this Lantern and Larks glamping spot, Kittisford Barton, with its five luxury safari tents dotted about like happy giants, I felt that holiday magic kick in straight away.

We’d booked one of those cracking tents for me and the other half, and crikey, it was pure bliss from the off. Wood-fired hot tub bubbling away on the deck, views stretching out over unspoilt countryside that made you want to pinch yourself. No wonder it’s a hit with families or mates – we could’ve easily nabbed a couple more for a group do. But honestly, the joy of the whole stay was doing sod all, and loving every lazy minute of it.

Our days melted into this gorgeous rhythm of absolute nothing-much. Mornings started with a stagger to the communal kitchen for a brew, then straight back to the tent with a mug and a book. I’d flop into one of those comfy chairs on the deck, feet up, watching the mist lift off the hills while the wood burner crackled away. Somerset’s countryside is made for this – sheep ambling by, birds doing their thing, not a rush in sight. Lunch was a posh picnic of local cheeses from the farm shop down the road in Wellington, scoffed in the garden area with a cheeky cider. No timetables, no checklists, just the sun warming your face and pages turning slower than a sleepy snail.

Afternoons? More of the same, but better. I’d sink into the hot tub, bubbles fizzing around me like a personal spa day, book balanced precariously on the edge (Ian McEwan’s latest – perfect for drifting off mid-chapter). The other half would potter about the garden, spotting butterflies or just lounging on the grass with a podcast. We’d chat about nothing – work woes from back home, daft dreams – or not chat at all, happy in the quiet. One evening, as the sun dipped low, painting everything gold, I had this little moment of self-reflection: blimey, when did life get so frantic? Here, time stretched out like warm toffee, reminding me that slowing down isn’t lazy, it’s essential. No hikes up Exmoor or pub crawls in Taunton – though there’s a cracking little spot in the village if you fancy – just us, the tent, and the sheer delight of switching off.

By the end of the week, we were pickled in relaxation, driving home with that glow you can’t fake. If you’re after a proper unwind in Somerset’s heart, this is the ticket. Book it, breathe deep, and let the world wait.