I’ll never forget the drive down to Minehead last month – my wife and I were buzzing with that proper holiday anticipation, you know, the kind where you’ve got the crisps packed and the playlist sorted for a smooth three hours from Bristol. But no, typical us: about halfway there, I took a wrong turn onto some winding B-road that had us crawling behind a tractor for what felt like miles. We were laughing so hard by the end, windows down, shouting “mooove over!” at the farmer. Proper daft, but it set the tone – this was going to be a chilled-out escape, just the two of us, no rush.

Pulling up to the cottage, I had this grin from ear to ear. It’s one of those classic terraced spots right in the heart of Minehead, all cosy and quaint with a nod to its sweet shop past – you can almost taste the humbugs in the air. First impressions? Spot on. The front door creaked open to a snug living room with a telly begging for a binge-watch, and upstairs, a comfy double bed that screamed “lie-ins ahead”. We dumped the bags and cracked open a cuppa, peering out at the sea just a stone’s throw away. Bliss.

We wasted no time diving into that easy Somerset rhythm. Mornings kicked off with brekkie on the little patio – bacon sarnies from the local butchers, with the sound of gulls squawking overhead. Minehead’s beach was our playground; we’d wander along the sand, paddling in the chilly Bristol Channel, collecting pebbles like kids. One afternoon, we hired a couple of deckchairs – pure nostalgia – and watched families building wonky sandcastles. I even tried my hand at one, but it collapsed spectacularly, leaving me knee-deep in a moat of my own making. Cue wife’s giggles: “You’re a right architect, you are!”

Evenings were cottage chaos at its finest. Cooking up a storm in the compact kitchen – think hearty Somerset cider-braised pork from the farm shop down the road, paired with a bottle of local scrumpy. We’d spill flour everywhere attempting scones (disaster, but delicious), then flop on the sofa for a rom-com, feet up, with the window cracked to catch the sea breeze. One night, a cheeky fox rustled the bins outside – we peeked out like detectives, whispering plans to leave it a sausage as a peace offering.

A gentle stroll up to the promenade brought ice creams from the van – double 99s with that flaky chocolate – and we’d people-watch the donkeys plodding along, tempting us for a ride next time. It was all so unhurried, those simple joys like chatting rubbish over tea or just sitting with a book as the sun dipped behind the hills.

Reflecting on it now, I realise how much we needed this. Life’s been a whirlwind lately, and there’s something magic about a wee cottage break that strips it all back – no agendas, just us, a bit of mayhem, and the sea. Somerset’s got that knack for recharging the batteries without you even trying. We’re already plotting a return.