I’ll never forget the drive down to Somerset last month – me behind the wheel, sat-nav chirping away like it knew best, and us bickering over whether to stop for a pasty in Taunton. Then, classic me, I missed the turning for Washford by a good mile, ending up in some narrow lane with hedges swallowing the car mirrors. A quick three-point turn (more like fifteen) later, and we were back on track, laughing about how holidays always start with a daft hitch. By the time we pulled up, the sun was dipping low over those rolling green hills, and I could already feel the tension melting away.

First impressions? Blimey, they hit you right between the eyes. Tucked away in this sleepy village, the place is a proper gem – a renovated annexe that screams cosy romance without trying too hard. We stepped inside to this warm, open-plan living space that just wraps you up like a hug. The shaker-style kitchen had everything you’d need to rustle up a simple supper, but honestly, who was I kidding? The real stars were the plush leather sofa by the electric fire and that big telly on the wall. Perfect for snuggling up with a film and a glass of wine, which is exactly what we did that first evening.

The joy of the whole trip was doing sod all, and I mean that in the best possible way. Somerset’s got its Dunster Castle and coastal paths nearby, sure, but we barely stirred beyond the garden. It’s a lush little spot, wildflowers nodding in the breeze, birdsong everywhere, and just enough privacy to feel like your own private world. Mornings kicked off slow: I’d make tea in that cracking kitchen, then we’d flop into the garden chairs with books – me ploughing through a battered paperback thriller, her lost in some rom-com novel. No rush, no plans, just the sun warming our faces and the distant hum of a tractor somewhere down the valley.

Afternoons blurred into lazy naps on the sofa, or pottering about reading the paper while the fire flickered. One day, I even managed a full crossword without cheating – small victories, eh? Evenings were for easy dinners (pasta, mostly, because effort is overrated) eaten at the intimate dining spot, followed by more films. Williton’s just a couple of miles off if you fancy a pub lunch, but we only popped out once for chips from the village shop, eaten back in the garden like kings.

Looking back, it was a gentle nudge to slow down. Life’s always rushing – work emails, deadlines, the lot – but there, in that little Somerset haven, time stretched out. I caught myself staring at the clouds, properly pondering, and realised how rare that is. No grand adventures, just pure, unadulterated loafing. If you’re after a break to recharge, find yourself a spot like this. You won’t regret it.