I finally made it to Peppers Lodge in Strawberryfield Park near Cheddar after a bit of a faff on the journey down. I'd set off from Bristol full of beans, Spotify playlist blasting some classic Fleetwood Mac, only for the sat-nav to chuck a wobbly just past Weston-super-Mare. It insisted on rerouting me down a single-track lane that looked more like a cow path, complete with a flock of sheep blocking the way. There I was, honking gently like a daft city boy, while the farmer ambled over with a grin and a "No rush, love, they've got all day." Fifteen minutes later, I was back on track, chuckling at my impatience, and pulling into the park just as the sun dipped behind the Mendip Hills.

First impressions? Blimey, what a gem. Peppers Lodge is one of those proper cosy hot tub lodges, all wood cladding and fairy lights, nestled in a peaceful corner of the park with views over open fields. I parked up, hauled my weekend bag inside, and was hit by that instant holiday whiff of fresh linen and pine. The open-plan living space is spot on for solo chilling – squishy sofa facing a telly bigger than my flat's, a compact kitchen with everything you'd need for a lazy fry-up, and a king-sized bed upstairs that looked like it was begging for a long lie-in. Outside, the private decking wrapped around with that gleaming hot tub, and a decent garden patch with loungers overlooking wildflower meadows. No blaring music from neighbours, just birdsong and the distant low of cows. Perfect for doing sod all, which was exactly the plan.

Day one was all about settling in and switching off. After unpacking (which took five minutes), I cracked open a cold cider from the local shop in Cheddar – just a mile away – and flopped into a lounger with my book. I'd brought along a battered copy of "The Wind in the Willows," figuring it fitted the rural vibe, and lost myself in Mole and Ratty's adventures while the afternoon sun warmed my toes. No itinerary, no alarms; just me, the garden buzzing with butterflies, and the odd rabbit hopping about like it owned the place. Dinner was equally effortless: raided the fridge for cheese from Cheddar Gorge (you can't not, can you?), some crusty bread, and a bit of pickle. Ate it al fresco as the sky turned that glorious Somerset pink, then slipped into the hot tub. Bubbles churning, steam rising, stars popping out one by one – pure bliss. I caught myself grinning like an idiot, thinking how I'd spent the whole day achieving precisely nowt, and it felt brilliant.

The next morning, I pottered about with a cuppa, watching mist lift off the fields from the deck. No rush to go anywhere, but curiosity got the better of me for a gentle wander. A short stroll along the park paths led to the edge of Strawberryfield, where you can glimpse the dramatic cliffs of Cheddar Gorge without even breaking a sweat. I ambled up to the village – five minutes in the car – for a mooch around the shops, picking up a pasty from the bakery that was still warm and flaky, proper job. Back at the lodge, it was more reading in the garden, feet up, letting the world slow to a crawl. Lunch was that pasty with a doorstep sandwich, devoured while dozing under a parasol. Afternoon? Hot tub redux, this time with a cheeky GandT, pondering how we'd all benefit from more of this faffing about.

By day three, I'd hit peak sloth. Woke late, brewed tea strong enough to strip paint, and spent hours on the sofa with the window flung wide, listening to the breeze rustle the leaves. A lazy loop around the park on foot, spotting pheasants and wild garlic, then back for more book time. It's funny – turning up stressed from work, I half-expected to itch for action, but instead, this little lodge worked its magic. Sitting there in the quiet, I had a proper moment of reflection: life's too short for constant rushing. Sometimes, the best holiday is one where you do bugger all but breathe, recharge, and remember what cosy feels like. Leaving Peppers Lodge, I was already plotting a return – mishap-free next time, hopefully.