I’ll never forget the drive down to that corner of Somerset near Taunton – we’d packed the car with enough snacks to feed a small army, the dog bouncing in the back, and me navigating with my phone like it was 1995. About halfway there, disaster struck: a wrong turn onto some narrow lane that had us convinced we’d ended up in a hedge maze. The satnav lost its marbles, chirping “recalculating” like a broken parrot, and we laughed our way through 20 minutes of proper rural detour before spilling out onto the right road. By then, I was buzzing with that mix of relief and excitement – you know, that “we’re nearly there” thrill that makes holidays feel alive.

Pulling up to the place, my first impressions were spot on. It’s this spacious self-catering cottage, perfect for up to six of us, with a luxury private hot tub that had me grinning like a kid at Christmas. Tucked in a peaceful rural spot near Taunton, it’s the sort of unwind haven that welcomes families, couples, cyclists, walkers, and even our daft Labrador without batting an eyelid. We dumped the bags, cracked open a cider (it felt obligatory), and just soaked in the quiet – no traffic hum, just birds and breeze.

But the real magic? Getting properly lost. Somerset’s got this knack for hiding gems if you veer off the beaten track, and we made it our mission. First afternoon, we wandered out for a “quick” walk and stumbled on a tucked-away picnic spot by the River Tone – not on any map, just a grassy bank with wildflowers and ducks quacking for crumbs. We’d taken a wrong path from the cottage, ending up there by accident, and it was pure bliss: cheese rolls, sun on our faces, and the dog splashing about like he’d discovered Narnia.

Next day, cycling along those gentle Exmoor fringes, we missed a signpost and found ourselves at a forgotten hamlet with a tiny tearoom run by a chap who brews his own nettle tea. Off-the-beaten-path doesn’t get better – scones still warm from the oven, jam that tasted like summer, and stories about local badger watches that had us chuckling. We got lost again on the way back, looping through woolly sheep fields, but who cares? That’s the joy of it.

Evenings were for the hot tub, bubbles and stars overhead, reflecting on how I’m always chasing the next big adventure but forget the simple ones right under my nose. One night, a “shortcut” ramble led us to a hidden woodland glade – ancient trees, bluebells peeking early, and not a soul around. We picnicked there till dusk, the dog snoring in the ferns. It hit me then: sometimes the best holidays aren’t planned; they’re the ones where you let the lanes lead you.

Back home now, I’m already plotting the return. Somerset’s secret spots? They’re waiting for the next wrong turn.