I’ll never forget the drive down to that glamping spot in the rolling Somerset hills – we’d packed the car to bursting with wellies, waterproofs, and enough crisps to siege a castle, only for the sat-nav to chuck us into a muddy farm track just outside Wellington. Heart in my mouth, I thought we’d end up axle-deep in a cowpat, but a quick reverse and a detour through some narrow lanes got us there unscathed. As we crested the final hill, though, blimey, what a first impression. Tucked into the unspoilt countryside, this Lantern and Larks site with its five luxury safari tents looked like something out of a proper countryside dream. Ours was all cosy with a wood-fired hot tub bubbling away, and I could already feel the city tension easing off my shoulders. Perfect for our little group – we’d booked a couple of tents side by side.

I’d been buzzing with anticipation on the journey, picturing long, lazy hikes through those lush valleys, maybe spotting a deer or two. Somerset’s got that magic for walkers, doesn’t it? First morning, the weather gods smiled: crisp blue skies, not a cloud in sight. We laced up our boots and headed out from the site onto the nearby paths winding towards the Blackdown Hills. It was pure bliss – gentle climbs through meadows dotted with wildflowers, the air thick with that earthy scent after a bit of overnight dew. We wandered for hours, past babbling streams and up to viewpoints where you could see for miles over Taunton Vale. Lunch was a cheeky picnic of cheese ploughman’s from the local farm shop we’d nabbed en route, sprawled on a rug like proper explorers. I even managed a triumphant selfie at the top, though looking back, my hair was a right state from the wind.

But oh, British weather – it’s got a wicked sense of humour. By afternoon, the heavens opened, turning our gentle stroll into a full-on squelch-fest. Mud everywhere, boots caked, and us laughing like idiots as we dashed back towards the tents. Plans for an evening hike to the Quantock fringes? Scrubbed. Instead, we fired up the hot tub, steaming mugs of tea in hand, watching the rain lash down. It forced a bit of reflection, actually – sat there soaked to the skin earlier, I realised how I never slow down at home. This was my nudge to embrace the chaos, you know? Let the weather call the shots.

Next day, grey skies again, but we weren’t deterred. Shorter loops from the site, sticking to the hill paths that skirt Wellington’s edges – dripping hedges, puddles you could swim in, but alive with birdsong and that fresh post-rain glow. One path took us through a shady woodland trail, ferns brushing our knees, emerging at a hidden pond perfect for a breather. The bad weather turned it into an adventure, forcing us to notice the little things: glow-worms at dusk (or so we told ourselves), the way the mist clings to the valleys. By the end of the stay, we’d racked up miles of muddy bliss, with the hot tub as our reward each night.

If you’re after a holiday that’s all about those Somerset walks – sunlit or sodden – this is the spot. Changed how I think about getting my steps in, that’s for sure. Can’t wait to go back.