I’ll never forget the drive down to Somerset last month – me behind the wheel of our battered old Fiesta, sat-nav insisting we were nearly there, when suddenly we hit a massive pothole just outside Bridgwater. Thump! The hubcap flew off like it was auditioning for the Olympics, and we pulled over laughing our heads off, me covered in mud from scrambling around in the hedge to retrieve it. Typical British road, eh? But after a quick fix with some gaffer tape (don’t judge), we were off again, buzzing with that holiday anticipation – visions of cream teas and rolling hills dancing in our heads.

Pulling up to the cottage, my first impressions were spot on. It’s one of those cosy, traditional farm-style properties tucked away in a quiet spot near Bridgwater, all low-key charm with a welcoming garden that screamed ‘put your feet up’. We dumped the bags and cracked open a cuppa, peering out at the Somerset Levels stretching invitingly ahead. Perfect for walking, I thought – miles of flat paths and secret lanes, right on our doorstep.

First day, the weather gods smiled: bright blue skies, not a cloud in sight. We laced up our boots and headed out for a proper hike along the nearby bridleways towards the River Parrett. It was bliss – crisp air, lapwings swooping overhead, and those vast, reed-fringed marshes that make the Levels so magical. We wandered for hours, spotting herons and even a distant buzzard, stopping for a picnic of cheese pasties from the local shop. Felt like we’d stepped into a David Attenborough doc. “This is living,” I grinned to my other half, as we meandered back just as the sun dipped low.

But oh, the British weather – it’s got a wicked sense of humour. Next morning, we woke to biblical rain lashing the windows. Our grand plan for a longer trek to Huntspill River? Scrubbed. Instead, we layered up in waterproofs and embraced the soggy adventure, splashing along a shorter loop through the wet meadows. Mud clung to our wellies like treacle, and at one point I slipped arse-over-tit into a puddle, emerging like a drowned rat. We howled with laughter, turning it into a game of dodging the deepest bogs. It was grim, but oddly brilliant – that fresh, earthy smell after rain, rainbows popping up unexpectedly. Made us appreciate the sunny days even more.

By day three, the clouds parted again, and we nailed a cracking five-miler circling back via some ancient drover’s paths. Legs ached, but the views over the patchwork fields were worth every step. Sitting in the cottage that evening, steaming mugs in hand, I had a quiet moment of reflection. Life back home’s a whirlwind of deadlines and drudgery – out here, pounding the paths in all weathers stripped it back to basics. No signal half the time, just us, the mud, and the endless sky. Somerset’s walks taught me to roll with the rain, quite literally. If you’re after a holiday that’ll get you hiking through heaven and a bit of hell, grab your boots and head to a spot like this. You won’t regret it.