I’ll never forget the drive to Pomegranate in Strawberryfield Park near Cheddar – a proper Somerset jaunt that started with a comedy of errors. I’d packed the car the night before, chuckling at my overzealous list of “essentials” (torch, wellies, and enough tea bags to sink a ship), but as I trundled out of Bristol on the A38, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly. “Recalculating,” it chirped, after I missed a turning thanks to a lorry hogging the lane. Twenty minutes later, I’m faffing about on a narrow B-road, hemmed in by hedgerows taller than me, with cows eyeing me suspiciously over drystone walls. Classic me – always the one to turn a 45-minute drive into an unintended rural rally.

Finally, after what felt like an age, I spotted the sign for Strawberryfield Park, tucked away in Sedgemoor District, just a stone’s throw from Cheddar’s famous gorge but worlds away from the coach-party crowds. Pomegranate itself is a gem of a holiday cottage – one of those dog-friendly hideaways that looks like it’s been plucked from a postcard. Hot tub bubbling away on the deck, fairy lights twinkling in the eaves, and that fresh Somerset air hitting you like a tonic. I arrived mid-afternoon on a drizzly Friday, the sort of weather that makes you grateful for a cosy porch to dump your bags. First impressions? Blissful seclusion. It’s part of a peaceful park, but Pomegranate feels utterly private, with its own patio overlooking wildflower meadows that stretch towards the Mendip Hills. I cracked open a window, and the scent of damp earth and distant woodsmoke wafted in – pure magic.

Unpacking done, I fancied a wander before settling in, no map, just curiosity. That’s the joy of Somerset, innit? You can’t help but stumble on hidden gems when you let the lanes lead you. Ten minutes’ potter from the cottage, I veered off the main path onto a footpath I’d not noticed on arrival – a proper off-the-beaten-track number, signposted vaguely as “Mendip Way.” It wound through ancient orchards, apples still clinging to gnarled branches despite the season, and deposited me at a forgotten reservoir glinting like a secret mirror. No one else around, just me, a pair of buzzards wheeling overhead, and the soft gurgle of water. I sat on a mossy log, supping flask tea, reflecting on how daft it is that we rush through life glued to screens. Here was stillness I hadn’t realised I craved – a gentle nudge from the universe to breathe.

Emboldened, I pushed on, getting properly lost in the best way. The lanes twisted towards Velvet Bottom, a nature reserve I’d never heard of, but blimey, what a find. Blanketed in wild thyme and orchids (even in autumn, there’s colour), it’s a karst valley pocked with sinkholes and badger setts – eerie yet enchanting, like stepping into a Tolkien tale minus the orcs. I chuckled to myself imagining Gandalf popping out for a pint at the local. A bit further, purely by accident, I chanced upon a tucked-away picnic spot by Ebbor Gorge, its limestone cliffs plunging dramatically but without the Cheddar Gorge hordes. The views? Sweeping panoramas over strawberry fields (no relation to the park, but poetic, eh?) and the odd sheep peering back like fluffy sentinels. I lingered till dusk, watching the sun dip behind the hills, painting everything gold.

Back at Pomegranate as twilight fell, the hot tub called – and boy, did it deliver. Slipping in with a cheeky cider from a nearby farm shop (nabbed en route, another serendipitous stop), I soaked away the day’s miles, muscles melting under the bubbles. First impressions sealed: this corner of Somerset is for souls who thrive on the unplanned, the undiscovered. Those accidental detours revealed pockets of paradise – wild, whispering spots that no guidebook hypes, just waiting for wanderers like me. Three days in, and I was already plotting a return, mishap-prone sat-nav and all. If you’re after proper escape, ditch the itinerary and let Pomegranate’s magic pull you into the hidden heart of the Mendips. You won’t regret it.