I’ll never forget the drive to Shropshire last month – me behind the wheel, sat-nav chirping away, and a full tank of optimism for our little getaway. We’d planned a cosy break in this one-bed apartment tucked into a wing of a grand old country house overlooking the Corve Valley, just 2.9 miles from Much Wenlock. But about halfway there, disaster struck: a sudden downpour turned the M54 into a skidpan, and I managed to splash a lorry driver who gave me the evils through his mirror. Heart in mouth, we pulled over for a brew and a laugh about my rubbish driving skills. Still, by the time we trundled down those winding lanes, anticipation was bubbling – visions of rolling hills and fresh air danced in my head.

Pulling into the charming cobbled courtyard, we were smitten straight away. Ground-floor entrance, and stepping inside? Blimey, the high ceilings and plush furnishings in the living/dining room hit like a warm hug. Regal dining table, electric woodburning stove flickering away, and a telly for rainy evenings. A cheeky little wooden staircase led up to a cracking kitchen – oven, hob, dishwasher, the lot. Perfect for a romantic escape amid luscious fields. First impressions? Spot on. We dumped the bags and cracked open a bottle of wine, toasting our good fortune.

Next morning, weather gods smiling, we laced up our boots for a hike along the Wenlock Edge. It’s this stunning escarpment right on the doorstep – think gentle paths winding through ancient woodland, with views that make you gasp. We ambled for hours, spotting buzzards overhead and wildflowers everywhere. Picnicked on a rug with cheese sarnies from the local Much Wenlock deli. Pure bliss, that fresh country air filling our lungs. I even managed a daft skip down a slope, pretending I was in a Sound of Music remake – until I tripped on a root and ended up arse-over-tit. My other half howled with laughter; I just dusted off and joined in. Light-hearted reminder that I’m no Bear Grylls.

But oh, British weather – it’s got a wicked sense of humour. Day two dawned drizzly, so our planned trek to the Holy Trinity Church ruins in Much Wenlock got binned for a mooch around the town’s priory instead. Cobbled streets, tearooms steaming with tea, and we dodged the showers under umbrellas, chatting about life. Afternoon cleared up miraculously, luring us back out for a valley ramble. Muddy paths through the Corve Dale, sheep bleating, and that earthy smell after rain. We pushed on, soaked but giggling, adapting as we went.

By the last day, I was reflecting on it all over coffee in the kitchen. These hikes, weather be damned, forced us to slow down – no rushing, just being present. Shropshire’s got this magic for walkers: one minute sun-drenched ridges, next a misty veil turning plans pear-shaped. It’s character-building, innit? We left fitter, closer, and plotting our return. If you fancy ditching the daily grind for boots and breezes, this corner of Shropshire’s calling your name.