I’ll never forget the drive down to Somerset last summer – we’d piled into two cars with enough luggage for a month, not a weekend, and about halfway there, just past Bristol, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly. It sent us on a detour through some winding lanes that got narrower by the minute, until we were basically queuing behind a tractor doing 10mph. Cue much laughing and a few daft jokes about ending up in a field for the night. But honestly, that little mishap was the perfect teaser – by the time we rolled up, buzzing with anticipation, the place blew us away. It’s this elegant Georgian manor, done up beautifully to sleep loads of us in heaps of bedrooms, with cosy reception rooms, a cracking cinema/party setup, and acres of manicured grounds to wander. Spot on for a house party where you can mingle all evening then vanish to your own space for a kip.

First impressions? Magic. We arrived mid-afternoon, sun dipping low, and the gardens felt like our own private estate. Walkable to the local pub and shops in Wellington, which was handy for emergency pasty runs. But the real joy? Getting properly lost in the best possible way. Somerset’s got this knack for hiding gems if you veer off the main drags, and with a big group like ours, we’d split off in pairs or threes, maps forgotten, just following whims.

One morning, a couple of us took a wrong turn on a stroll from the house and stumbled into this tucked-away spot by the Tone Valley – a serene little picnic area with wildflowers everywhere and the river babbling away. No crowds, just us, some cheese rolls, and a heron eyeing us suspiciously. Turned out it was part of the old Wellington Monument estate trails, but the hidden bit felt like our secret. Another day, aiming for a quick pub lunch, we got sidetracked by a footpath sign and ended up at a forgotten cider orchard just a mile or so off. The trees were heavy with fruit, and the farmer let us pick a few – proper scrumpy in the making, or so we reckoned. Sat there on a log, supping warm cider from a jug he pressed on us, chatting about nothing. Pure bliss.

The kids (well, the younger ones) found their own jackpot when they wandered too far along the grounds’ edge and discovered a shaded dell with a natural spring bubbling up. They came back filthy and ecstatic, declaring it a fairy pool. Evenings, we’d regroup in the party room for films or games, but someone would always pipe up about their accidental find – like the quirky village hall café in nearby Greenham with homemade flapjacks to die for, or the ancient dew pond up a sheep track where we watched rabbits at dusk.

Looking back, I realise I’m a bit of a planner by nature, always plotting itineraries, but this trip taught me to embrace the detours. Getting lost led to those off-the-beaten-path moments that made the whole stay unforgettable – no tourist traps, just Somerset’s quiet charms unfolding by chance. If you’re rounding up mates or family for a proper get-together, hunt out a spot like this. You won’t regret it.