I’ll never forget the drive to Boxing Hares Lodge in Somerset – a proper faff from the start. I’d set off from Bridgwater early, map on the dash, only to realise halfway that I’d packed my wellies instead of my trainers. Sod’s law, innit? Ended up with soggy feet before I even arrived, splashing through a puddle that appeared out of nowhere on those narrow lanes near Sedgemoor. But as I pulled up to the lodge, nestled in its quiet spot just outside Bridgwater, the mishap melted away. It’s one of those cosy stone cottages that screams “proper Somerset hideaway” – all wonky beams and flower baskets, with hares etched into the door like it’s winking at you.

First impressions? Blown away. The owner, Tom, was there to greet me – a wiry chap in his sixties with a beard like a Brillo pad and a handshake that could crush walnuts. “Welcome to the Hares, lad,” he boomed, eyes twinkling. “Don’t mind the pheasants; they’re nosy buggers.” He wasn’t wrong; a pair strutted past like they owned the place. Tom’s lived here all his life, born in a nearby farm, and within five minutes he was regaling me with tales of the Great Somerset Levels flood of ’13. “Water up to me knees, it was! Lost me best tractor.” I chuckled, picturing him rowing it to safety. He insisted on showing me round the garden – rambling roses, a veg patch bursting with spuds and kale – and slipped me a jar of his homemade damson jam. “From the trees down the lane. Proper sweet, like me ex-wife wasn’t.” Cheeky sod.

Inside, it was all character too. The lounge had a log burner ready with kindling (Tom: “Light it if you’re chilly; wood’s free as a bird”), and the kitchen screamed home-cooked suppers. But it was the locals who really made the arrival magic. Popped out for a pint at the King’s Head, a stone’s throw away – proper old boozer with horse brasses and a dartboard scarred from decades of misuse. There I met Doris, the landlady, a pensioner with a perm like a halo and a laugh that rattled the glasses. “First time in Somerset, love?” she asked, pulling me a pint of Exmoor Ale. Turns out she’s known Tom since they were knee-high. “He was always chasing hares – real and imaginary. Mind that path by the canal; otters about at dusk.” We chatted for ages about village life – the WI bake-offs (her lemon drizzle’s legendary), the annual ploughing match, and how the badgers nick the bins. “Cheeky sods, worse than foxes,” she cackled.

Next morning, wandering the garden with a cuppa, who should appear but Madge from next door, cycling up with a basket of eggs. “Fresh from me hens!” she declared, all five-foot-nothing of her in wellies and a Barbour. Madge is a hoot – retired postie, knows everyone’s business. “Saw you arrive yesterday, dear. Tom says you’re city folk. Fancy a mooch to the rhubarb patch?” Over tea in her conservatory (stuffed with pot plants and cat ornaments), she spun yarns about Bridgwater Carnival – “Floats taller than houses, fireworks like the Blitz!” – and the time a cow wandered into the pub. “Doris had to shoo it out with a broom.” I was in stitches, realising how these characters knit the place together.

Reflecting on it now, sat on the lodge’s patio with Tom’s jam on toast, I felt a pang – city life’s all rush and screens, but here, it’s people like Tom, Doris and Madge who make a spot feel like home. Arriving at Boxing Hares wasn’t just checking in; it was stumbling into a Somerset soap opera, full of quirky souls and daft tales. Three days in, and I’m already plotting a return.