I’ll never forget the drive down to Somerset last month – me behind the wheel of our trusty old estate car, sat-nav chirping away like it knew best, and my other half dozing in the passenger seat. We’d taken the scenic route from Bristol, winding through those lush green hills, when disaster struck just past Bruton. A massive tractor decided to play chicken with us on a single-track lane, forcing me into an emergency reverse that ended with us wedged against a hedge. Cue a good ten minutes of swearing under my breath (well, mostly at the tractor driver) and a few backwards manoeuvres that would’ve made a rally driver proud. We laughed it off eventually, but it set the tone for the trip: expect the unexpected.

By the time we rolled up to the barn conversion near Yeovil, the sun was dipping low, casting this golden glow over everything. I’d been buzzing with anticipation all week – visions of cream teas and cider aplenty – but the first impressions? Spot on. It was this cosy, low-slung spot tucked away down a quiet lane, with a welcoming porch piled high with logs and a garden that begged for a GandT at dusk. We dumped the bags and cracked open a bottle straight away, toasting our hedge-scraping survival.

What turned our stay into pure magic, though, wasn’t the obvious tourist traps – oh no, it was the hidden gems we stumbled upon by pure accident. Somerset’s got this knack for rewarding the wanderer, especially when you veer off the beaten track. First morning, we fancied a gentle hike and followed a footpath sign from the garden that led us into a maze of hedgerows. Half an hour later, we were properly lost, but in the best way. It spat us out at this tiny, forgotten churchyard in a hamlet I can’t even name – just wildflowers spilling over wonky gravestones and a bench with a view across misty valleys. No crowds, no signs, just us and a pair of buzzards wheeling overhead. We picnicked there with cheese from a nearby dairy we’d spotted on the way, feeling like we’d uncovered buried treasure.

The next day, same story. Aiming for a quick dog walk (we’d borrowed the hosts’ spaniel), we took a wrong turn onto a bridleway and ended up at an abandoned orchard heavy with windfalls. Locals must’ve missed it, but we gorged on scrumped apples sweeter than any shop-bought, then followed a stream that burbled us to a secluded picnic spot by a bubbling brook. It was one of those moments that makes you reflect – here I was, mid-forties, still getting that kid-like thrill from getting lost. Life’s too short for maps sometimes, eh? Makes you appreciate the quiet joys, like the way the light hits dew on spiderwebs or the unexpected chatter of a kingfisher darting past.

Evenings were for pottering back to the barn, firing up the log burner and swapping tales over homemade pasties. We found a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it farm shop less than a mile away, loaded with local honey and fudge that tasted of the earth itself. No grand adventures, just these serendipitous pockets of Somerset magic that you only find when you let the lanes lead you astray. If you’re after proper escapism, ditch the guidebook and embrace the detours – that’s my top tip from our little jaunt. We left with muddy boots, full bellies, and a promise to return for more happy accidents.