I’ll never forget the drive to Buttercup (Cow Shed 3) near Woodbridge – a proper Suffolk jaunt that started with me faffing about in the boot of the car like a headless chicken. We’d set off from home early enough, or so I thought, winding through those classic Suffolk lanes lined with hedgerows and the odd tractor ambling along at snail’s pace. But about ten miles in, disaster struck: I’d forgotten to pack the picnic hamper. Not just any old oversight – this was my lovingly assembled ploughman’s with Suffolk ham, local cheddar, and a flask of tea. Cue an impromptu stop at a farm shop just off the A12, where I dashed in, grabbed whatever was handy (some pork scratchings and a dodgy pasty), and emerged triumphant, only to realise I’d locked my keys in the car. Classic me. Fifteen minutes of sweet-talking a passing farmer with his Land Rover later, we were back on track, laughing at my expense, with the sun dipping low over the barley fields.

By the time we trundled up the final gravel track to Buttercup, it was golden hour, and Suffolk was pulling out all the stops. The cottage – a gloriously converted cow shed, mind – sat there like it had been waiting just for us, nestled in a cluster of similar barns amid rolling paddocks. You could practically smell the history: weathered timber beams, whitewashed walls, and that faint whiff of hay that screams countryside chic. I parked wonkily beside a couple of bemused sheep eyeing us from the fence, and we tumbled out, bags flying everywhere in our haste. Chaos reigned for a good ten minutes – me wrestling with the wonky gate latch (it stuck, naturally, adding to the arrival farce), the other half fumbling the code for the key safe while our Jack Russell, Monty, did laps around the flower tubs bursting with lavender and foxgloves.

Stepping inside was like sinking into a warm hug. The open-plan living space opened up straight away, with a cosy wood burner already stacked with logs (cheers to the hosts for that thoughtful touch), squishy sofas draped in woolly throws, and a kitchen that looked ready for a proper Suffolk fry-up. I love how these old cow sheds keep their character – exposed brick, quirky angles where the cows once mooched, but tricked out with all the mod cons. The French doors flung wide to a private patio overlooking the meadows, where the light was painting everything in that soft, buttery glow. First impressions? Bloody marvellous. We cracked open a bottle of Adnams Ghost Ship – sourced from the local brewery, naturally – and just sat there, feet up, as Monty claimed his spot by the Aga.

That first evening, we wandered a stone’s throw to the edge of the paddocks, spotting a barn owl ghosting over the horizon – pure magic. Supper was simple: local sausages sizzling on the hob, with bread from the nearby bakery in Woodbridge. No grand plans, just us soaking it in. Amid the arrival kerfuffle, I had a quiet moment staring out at the stars popping up one by one. Life’s too short for locked keys and forgotten hampers, isn’t it? Here in Suffolk, amid the gentle lowing of distant cows, it all felt brilliantly, simply right. Can’t wait to go back – minus the car drama next time.