I finally made it to the Dorset Alpaca Shepherds Hut near Dorchester after a proper faff on the drive down from Bristol. It was meant to be a straightforward hour-and-a-half scoot along the A37, but no, I managed to take a wrong turn at Yeovil and ended up in some random layby arguing with Google Maps while the kids in the back seat chanted "Are we there yet?" like a broken record. Classic me – the sat-nav whisperer who still can't navigate without a minor crisis. By the time we pulled up, the sun was dipping low over the rolling hills, casting that golden Dorset glow, and I was already laughing at my own daftness.

Spotting the hut from the lane was a right treat. Tucked away on a small working farm just outside Dorchester, it's this cosy little timber number plonked amid lush paddocks, with actual alpacas grazing nearby – fluffy as anything, peering at us with those big, curious eyes. We parked up on the gravel patch, unloaded our overstuffed boot (why do families always pack like we're off to the Arctic?), and there was the owner, Sue, waving us over with a welcoming grin and a thermos of tea. "Don't mind the alpacas," she chuckled, "they're nosy but harmless." Within minutes, we'd dumped our bags inside and were sipping builder's tea on the veranda, watching the beasts amble past like they owned the place.

Stepping into the hut for the first time felt like slipping into a hug. It's tiny – proper shepherds' hut size, you know? – but oh so cleverly done. A double bed up on a mezzanine platform (laddered up with rope sides for that rustic thrill), a snug corner with a wood-burning stove already set with kindling, and a kitchenette gleaming with all the essentials: kettle, toaster, even a proper cafetière for my morning fix. The en-suite shower was surprisingly swish, all steamy and powerful, and there was this fold-out table by the window perfect for family card games. We cracked open a bag of Jammie Dodgers and just sat there, taking it in. The kids immediately claimed the floor space as their "den," scattering crisps everywhere, while I lit the stove – first go, success! – and felt a proper wave of smugness.

First impressions? Pure bliss with a side of adorable chaos. That evening, as the light faded, we wandered the farm track – all of five minutes from the hut – spotting the alpacas up close. One cheeky sod, we'll call him Larry, stuck his head over the fence and nicked a carrot I'd foolishly pulled from the communal veg patch nearby. The littlest one screamed with delight, and even I couldn't stop giggling as we chased him off. Sat back on the veranda with mugs of hot chocolate (the kids' version laced with mini marshmallows), listening to the Dorset countryside hum – birds settling, distant sheep bleating – it hit me. Here we were, a family of four crammed into what amounted to a posh garden shed, yet it felt miles away from the daily grind. No screens, no schedules, just us and the simple joy of being outside our norm.

I had a quiet moment then, staring at the stars popping out overhead (Dorset skies are unreal, so clear), reflecting on how these little escapes remind you what's important. Amid the lodge life mayhem – the stove smoke that briefly billowed into the hut like a comedy fog machine, the kids' sock trail from door to bed – it's the unhurried pace that sticks. No grand plans, just arrival and sinking into it. By bedtime, snuggled under the duck-down duvet with the gentle patter of rain on the tin roof, I knew this three-day jaunt was already shaping up as one of those holidays you replay in your head for months. Dorset, you've got me hooked.