I’ll never forget the drive to Braeburn Lodge in Glastonbury, Somerset – a proper British road trip that started with me spilling my entire flask of tea all over the passenger seat just past the M5. Sod’s law, innit? There I was, faffing about with the satnav, convinced I’d taken a wrong turn onto some narrow lane that looked like it led to Narnia, when splash – a full-on Earl Grey tsunami. Mopped it up with a knackered old towel from the boot, laughing at myself the whole way. By the time I pulled up to the lodge late afternoon on that first day, I was parched, sticky, and utterly ready for whatever Somerset had in store.

Braeburn Lodge is one of those cracking little spots tucked away in the Mendip District, a cosy wooden cabin that screams “get away from it all” without being pretentious. First impressions? Spot on. It’s got this welcoming vibe – veranda for your morning cuppa, a wood-burning stove begging to be lit, and views that stretch out over the gentle Somerset hills. I arrived to a sky threatening rain, typical for these parts, but the sun was peeking through like it was teasing me. Unpacked in ten minutes flat, laced up my boots, and headed straight out for a wander, map in hand (well, phone, but you get me).

Day one’s plan was a gentle hike up to the Tor – you can’t come to Glastonbury without that, can you? It’s only a couple of miles from the lodge, an easy plod along winding paths through lush fields dotted with sheep eyeing you suspiciously. The weather was playing nice at first: crisp autumn air, a bit of mist rolling in from the Levels, making everything feel properly magical. I puffed my way up the steep bit, past the apple orchards (Somerset cider country, after all), and there it was – Glastonbury Tor rising like a fairy-tale hill, St Michael’s Tower silhouetted against a patchy blue sky. First impressions from the top? Bloody brilliant. You get this sweeping panorama of the Somerset Levels, reed beds shimmering, and in the distance, the faint outline of the Mendips. I sat there with my soggy sandwiches, feeling a right twit for the tea disaster earlier, but chuffed to bits. Gentle self-reflection moment: sometimes life’s little cock-ups force you to slow down and appreciate the view, eh?

Come evening, the British weather decided to flex. A proper downpour hit as I trundled back – horizontal rain that turned the paths to mud slides. I slipped once, landed on my arse in a puddle, and laughed till I cried. No choice but to duck into the lodge, light that stove, and watch the torrent from the window. First night in, cosy as you like, with the patter on the roof lulling me into dreams of more trails.

Day two dawned drizzly, so I adapted like a true Brit – chucked on the waterproofs and aimed for a flatter ramble around the Chalice Well gardens, just a stone’s throw away. It’s this serene spot with iron-red springs and peaceful paths winding through ancient yews. The rain softened everything, turning leaves to glossy jewels, and I had the place mostly to myself. Weather changed plans from a longer loop up Wearyall Hill, but it forced a slower pace – splashing through puddles, breathing in that earthy petrichor scent. Humour in the hardship: I looked like a drowned rat by the end, but the lodge’s hot shower was pure heaven. First impressions evolved: this place isn’t just pretty; it’s a base for whatever the skies chuck at you.

Third day, the sun finally muscled in, and I made for a cheeky circuit along the River Brue paths nearby – flat, easy going, with herons flapping off and cows lowing in the meadows. Weather tease again: blue skies turned to scudding clouds mid-hike, a light shower forcing a shelter under an oak. But oh, the payoff – rain-fresh air, rainbows arching over the Tor. Back at Braeburn by tea time, boots caked in mud, heart full. Those first impressions sealed it: Somerset’s hikes, weather whims and all, make for the perfect reset. If you’re after a lodge that hugs you through the lot, this is your spot.