I’ll never forget the drive down to that cracking 100-acre working farm in the Brecon Beacons – our grand group getaway that promised pure escapism. Me, my lot, and a mate’s extended family, all piled into two cars like sardines in a tin, racing from Cardiff on a drizzly Friday afternoon. We’d built it up for weeks: no emails, no deadlines, just fresh air and farm vibes. But typical us – about halfway there, just past Merthyr, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly. “Recalculating,” it chirped cheerily as we veered off onto some narrow B-road that felt more like a sheep track. My husband’s behind the wheel, tutting like a pro, while the kids in the back start a full-on squabble over the last packet of crisps. Then, splash – we hit a massive puddle courtesy of a passing tractor, soaking the windscreen and turning the cab into a misty sauna. Hearts racing, we pulled over for a laugh and a brew from the thermos, wondering if this was a sign to turn back.

By the time we trundled up the final winding lane to the farm, tempers were frayed but anticipation was buzzing. There it was: two cosy farm cottages and a brilliant barn conversion, all nestled in this lush pocket of the Beacons, sleeping the 15 of us without a hitch. First impressions? Bloody marvellous – or rather, blooming marvellous. The sun peeked out just as we arrived, casting that golden glow over the rolling fields, and the farmer waved us in with a grin and a “Mind the chickens!” We tumbled out, bags flying everywhere in the chaos, kids whooping as a couple of lambs scampered past. It was love at first sight: the place felt like a proper hug from the countryside, with trails snaking right off the doorstep.

That first evening sorted the arrival madness perfectly. We dumped our gear in the cottages – mine had this ace view straight across the farm – and cracked open a few tins while the barn’s big open space became instant HQ for board games and storytelling. The littluns were straight out exploring the paths that weave through the property, spotting buzzards overhead and getting properly mucky in the best way. Dinner was a communal feast of local sausages from Sennybridge’s shop (just three miles down the road, thank goodness), rustled up on the Aga. Sat there with the windows flung wide, listening to the Usk’s gentle burble in the distance, I had one of those quiet moments: blimey, we’re always rushing about, aren’t we? This – the simple joy of being unplugged with your favourite people – it’s what we forget we need.

Next morning, we wandered the Epynt Way paths cutting through the farm, breathing in that crisp Beacons air, plotting a pub lunch in Sennybridge. No grand plans beyond that; the farm’s magic was in its unhurried charm. If you’re after a group bolt-hole that turns arrival pandemonium into pure bliss, this is it. We left knackered but buzzing, already plotting a return. Proper tonic for the soul.