I finally made it to Combe Hay at Strawberryfield Park in Cheddar, Somerset, after a bit of a faff on the journey down from Bristol. I'd taken the scenic route through the Mendip Hills, windows down, radio blasting some classic Radio 2 tunes, when – wouldn't you know it – I got stuck behind a tractor trundling along at what felt like snail's pace. Fifteen minutes of gentle honking and internal muttering later, I pulled into the park, laughing at myself for getting so het up over nothing. As I parked up next to my cosy lodge, the first proper breath of fresh Somerset air hit me, and just like that, all the week's stresses melted away.

Stepping inside Combe Hay for the first time was like stumbling into a hug from an old mate. The place is one of those hot tub lodges that ticks all the boxes for a proper unwind – compact but ever so inviting, with a wood-burning stove (already stocked with kindling, bless 'em), a squishy sofa piled high with cushions, and a kitchenette that screamed "make a cuppa and chill". The decor's all rustic charm: think exposed beams, plush throws in earthy tones, and a telly that's there if you want it, but who needs it with views like these? I dumped my bag, kicked off my shoes, and flopped onto the sofa with a sigh of pure contentment. First impressions? This was heaven for anyone whose idea of a holiday is doing precisely bugger all.

That first afternoon, I didn't venture far – why would I? The lodge's private decking wrapped around it like a suntrap, overlooking the park's communal gardens bursting with wildflowers and those massive Somerset hedges. I cracked open a book I'd been meaning to read for months (some lightweight crime thriller – perfect for switching off), brewed a pot of tea, and just sat there as the sun dipped low. Birds chirping, distant lowing of cows from the fields nearby – it was pure poetry. I even spotted a cheeky squirrel eyeing up the bird feeder, which had me chuckling as I imagined it plotting its next heist. No rush, no plans; just me, my mug, and the kind of quiet that lets your mind wander without a care.

Come evening, I fired up the hot tub – oh, what a treat. Bubbles churning, steam rising into the twilight, I sank in with a glass of local cider I'd grabbed from the park's honesty shop (Somerset scrumpy, sharp and fizzy – spot on). Staring out at the starry sky, I had one of those gentle moments of self-reflection: back home, I'm always rushing about, ticking boxes like a mad thing. Here, in this little bubble of bliss, I realised how much I'd been missing out on simply being. No emails pinging, no deadlines looming – just the joy of slowing right down. It felt almost indulgent, this laziness, but in the best possible way.

The next morning reinforced it all over again. Breakfast was a lazy affair: toast slathered in marmalade, eaten al fresco on the decking while the mist lifted off the hills. A short, ambling wander around Strawberryfield Park revealed winding paths perfect for a potter, lined with lavender and buzzing bees. Cheddar's right on the doorstep – a five-minute drive for a mooch around the village shop for pasties and cheese (proper Cheddar, naturally, crumbly and divine). But mostly, I stayed put, reading in the hammock strung between the trees, dozing off to the hum of the countryside. One light-hearted mishap: I nodded off so soundly I toppled out, landing in a giggling heap on the grass. No harm done, just another reminder that perfection's overrated – this unhurried lark is where the real magic lies.

By the end of that first full day, Combe Hay had me hooked. It's the sort of place that whispers "stay a while" without you even noticing. No grand adventures needed; the sheer delight of lounging in your pyjamas till noon, sipping coffee in the garden, and letting time stretch out like warm toffee – that's the Somerset stay I didn't know I craved. If you're after a reset button wrapped in cosiness, this is it. I can't wait to return and do even less.