I’ll never forget the drive down to Somerset – sat nav insisting we take some winding B-road that turned into a single-track lane, and wouldn’t you know it, we ended up nose-to-nose with a tractor doing about 2mph. A classic British countryside standoff! After a bit of awkward reversing (me pretending I’m a pro at it), we finally rolled into those rolling hills, hearts racing a tad, but buzzing with that proper holiday anticipation. Spotting the glamping site nestled in the unspoilt greenery, with its cluster of luxury safari tents, my first impressions were spot on – it looked like the perfect escape, wood-fired hot tubs steaming invitingly, and not a whiff of city stress in sight.

We’d booked a couple of tents for our little family group, and settling in felt like slipping into a warm embrace. The tents were cosy as anything, with proper beds and that fresh countryside air wafting through. But let’s be honest, the real star of the show was the food – or rather, our grand plans to make the most of it. First morning, I fancied myself a bit of a chef, firing up the outdoor kitchen to rustle up a full English with local sausages I’d nabbed from Wellington market the day before. Sausages from Cotley Farm, plump and herby, paired with eggs from a nearby farm stall – it was messy, with smoke billowing everywhere, but tasted like heaven. Laughed at myself when the bacon went a bit crispy-chewy; note to self, glamping doesn’t mean I’m suddenly Jamie Oliver.

Pub lunches became our daily ritual. There’s this cracking little spot just a short stroll away in Greenham, The Greenham Inn, where the ploughman’s was a monster – chunks of mature Cheddar from local dairies, crusty bread, pickle sharp enough to wake you up, and a side of their homemade pork scratchings that had us all fighting over the last handful. Washed down with a pint of Exmoor Ale, it was pure bliss, sat outside under the trees, watching the world go by. Evenings, we’d hike over to the Fox and Goose in Kittisford – tiny, traditional, and heaving with locals. Their Sunday roast (we timed it perfectly) was legendary: tender roast beef from Somerset beef farmers, Yorkshire puds like fluffy clouds, and veg roasted in duck fat that I’m still dreaming about. I tried recreating it back at the tent one night, but my gravy was more lumpy soup – gentle reminder that I’m better at eating than cooking!

Markets were our treasure trove. Popped into Wellington’s Pannier Market mid-week, grabbing fresh bread, artisan cheeses, and a punnet of strawberries so sweet they didn’t need anything but a quick dunk in cream. We turned one lot into an Eton mess attempt in the tent – whipped cream by hand (arms ached!), meringues that crumbled hilariously, but it hit the spot after a day lounging in the hot tub. Another evening, friends in the next tent shared their wood-fired pizza dough, and we experimented with toppings from the market: chorizo, wild garlic pesto, and feta that melted like a dream. Laughing over burnt edges and too much cheese, it was those daft, shared meals that made it magical.

Reflecting on it now, amid the feasting and faffing, I realised how these simple, hearty Somerset eats grounded us – no fancy restaurants, just proper, pubby grub and market hauls that tasted of the land. Stress? What stress? If you’re after a holiday where the food fuels the fun, this is your spot. We left fuller, happier, and already plotting the next trip.