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 board games to last a siege, the kids chattering away in the back, when suddenly the screen froze on some random junction near Taunton. Cue 20 minutes of frantic map-scrolling and a detour through a village that felt like it hadn’t changed since the 1950s. By the time we rolled up those winding lanes into the rolling hills, I was ready to throttle the thing, but honestly, it added to the adventure. And then we arrived – my word, what a sight. Nestled in this lush pocket of countryside, the safari tents dotted about like something out of a storybook, each one promising pure escapism. We’d booked one that slept all six of us comfortably, and from the off, it felt like stepping into a hug.

Pulling up, the anticipation bubbled over – you know that fizz you get when you’ve been dreaming of a break for months? The tent was everything: spacious inside with a wood-burning stove that we got roaring straight away, proper beds that didn’t sag, and hot water on tap. But the real star? That wood-fired hot tub out the back, steaming gently under the trees. First impressions were spot on – it was all so effortlessly welcoming, like the place had been waiting just for us.

The joy of it all was doing absolutely bugger all, and I mean that in the best possible way. Somerset’s got its charms five minutes down the lane – a quick wander to spot sheep in the fields or pick blackberries if you’re feeling energetic – but we barely stirred. Mornings started slow: I’d potter out to the garden area, brew a pot of tea on the stove, and sink into one of those canvas chairs with a dog-eared paperback. The kids would mooch about, building dens from sticks or just flopping on the grass, while we adults took turns firing up the hot tub. There’s something magic about bubbling away in there as the sun dips, hills turning golden, a glass of local cider in hand (picked up from a farm shop nearby, naturally). No schedules, no rushing – just the tick of the clock replaced by birdsong.

One lazy afternoon, I caught myself staring at a woodpecker tapping away on a tree, and it hit me: when did I last properly switch off? Work emails forgotten, to-do lists vaporised. We played endless rounds of cards inside, the stove crackling, rain pattering on the canvas roof – proper hygge, Somerset-style. Evenings were for stargazing from the garden, wrapped in blankets, pointing out constellations we probably misnamed. The tents are glamping at its finest, cosy without being fussy, and that garden space felt like our private Eden.

By the end of the week, we’d achieved peak laziness – recharged, giggling at our own daft jokes, and already plotting a return. If you’re after slowing right down amid those Somerset hills, this is the spot. Pure bliss.