I’ll never forget the drive down to Somerset – we’d packed the car with enough cheese dreams to rival a dairy farm, but about halfway there, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us looping around some back lane that looked like it hadn’t seen tarmac since the war. Me and Sarah were in stitches, arguing over whether to trust the phone or my dodgy sense of direction, but it added a proper laugh to the anticipation bubbling up. We were buzzing to arrive at this cosy little detached bungalow tucked away near Cheddar, the sort of place that promises proper downtime for a couple like us, no kids or chaos, just us two escaping the daily grind.

Pulling up, my first impressions were spot on – it looked every bit the charming retreat we’d hoped for, with that welcoming glow from the windows as the sun dipped low over the Mendips. We tumbled out, bags in hand, and within minutes were kicking off our shoes in the snug living space, already feeling the holiday magic kick in. No grand entrance, just simple comforts that made you sigh with relief.

First morning, we wandered over to the village shop for essentials – bacon, eggs, and a cheeky block of that famous Cheddar cheese, naturally. Breakfast on the patio was pure bliss, watching the mist lift off the hills while the kettle whistled away. We kept it dead relaxed, pottering about the garden, listening to birdsong and the distant bleat of sheep. Lunch was a picnic by the nearby reservoir, feet dangling off the bank, sandwiches a bit squished from the car mishap but tasting spot on with a flask of tea.

Afternoons melted into lazy rambles along the gorge paths – not too strenuous, mind, just enough to work up an appetite for cream tea back at the bungalow. I had a right go at perfecting scones in the oven, emerging with a tray of slightly wonky triumphs that we slathered with clotted cream and jam. Sarah reckoned they were better than the café’s, which was kind, but we both knew it was the messing about that made them special. Evenings were for curling up with a bottle of local cider, bingeing a rubbish detective series, and letting the world fade away.

There was this one moment of gentle reflection as we sat out stargazing one night – the sky was ridiculous, pin-sharp without city lights. I caught myself thinking how we’d let life rush us lately, work piling up like unwashed dishes. This break reminded me it’s the small stuff that sticks: shared giggles over burnt toast edges, holding hands on a quiet walk, that cottage-life chaos of spilled tea and forgotten washing that feels like home. Somerset worked its spell on us, no doubt – we left recharged, already plotting a return. Proper tonic for the soul.