I’ll never forget the drive down to Herefordshire – we’d packed the car with enough cheese and crackers to last a siege, only for the sat-nav to chuck us into a muddy farm track just shy of the village. There I was, reversing like a pro (or so I thought) while my other half laughed and snapped pics for posterity. A classic us moment, but honestly, it just ramped up the anticipation. We were buzzing to hole up in this cracking barn conversion at the foot of the Black Mountains, a stone’s throw from the village centre with its brilliant little store and that proper 12th-century Norman castle looming nearby.

Pulling up, the first impressions were spot on – cosy, welcoming vibes with a homely feel that screamed “kick off your boots and relax”. It’s the sort of place that wraps you up like a favourite jumper, perfect for us two on a chilled-out couple’s break. No grand plans, just simple pleasures: brewing a pot of tea on arrival, gazing out at those rolling hills, and plotting lazy walks from the doorstep in this peaceful pocket of the National Park.

We wasted no time lacing up our boots for the Black Mountains trails – honestly, some of the best walking right there waiting. One morning, we ambled along the Offa’s Dyke path, following the ridge towards Hay Bluff with those epic views unfolding like a postcard. The air was crisp, the sheep dotted about like fluffy critics, and we stopped for a picnic of local bread and that cheddar we’d stockpiled. Pure bliss, though I did have a wobbly moment clambering over a stile – gentle reminder that I’m not as nimble as I was at 25. Self-reflection over a cuppa later: maybe it’s time to swap the sofa for more of these rambles!

Evenings were all about cottage life chaos in the best way. We’d fire up the oven for a roast, spilling flour everywhere while attempting homemade scones (disaster, but tasty), then flop in front of the telly with a bottle of something local. Day trips kept it relaxed – a potter into Abergavenny for their farmers’ market, snaffling fresh pies and fudge. Crickhowell in the Usk Valley was a gem too, with its quaint high street and a pub lunch overlooking the river. And Hay-on-Wye? We lost hours in those eclectic bookshops, me emerging with a towering stack on cider history (foreshadowing!).

Of course, we couldn’t skip the Great Cider Route – a meander through orchards, sampling at a nearby farm with cheeky tastings that left us giggling and rosy-cheeked. There’s something magical about these Herefordshire produce festivals; we caught a small one with apple pressing and live folk tunes, chatting with locals who made us feel right at home.

It was one of those holidays that resets you – no rush, just us, the countryside, and a bit of lovingly chaotic bliss. If you’re after a proper unwind with your favourite person, this neck of the woods delivers every time. We’re already plotting a return.