I’ll never forget the drive to The Bolt in Wells, Somerset – a three-day jaunt that started with all the promise of a proper getaway and ended up in a comedy of errors before I’d even unpacked. It was a drizzly Friday afternoon in late spring, the sort where the Mendip Hills loom misty and inviting under a sky that can’t make up its mind. I’d plotted the route meticulously on my phone, aiming for those winding lanes through Glastonbury Tor’s shadow – nothing too far, just a hop from the A39 into the heart of it all. But Somerset roads have a way of testing you, don’t they? About five miles out, my sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly, directing me down a single-track lane that narrowed into what felt like a goat path. Cue the mishap: I grazed a hedgerow with the wing mirror, shearing off a handful of blackthorn berries that splattered across the windscreen like abstract art. “Brilliant,” I muttered, pulling over to scrape them off with a Costa cup sleeve. Ten minutes later, mirror dangling like a wonky ear, I finally spotted the thatched roof of The Bolt peeking over a stone wall on a quiet street in Wells.

Stumbling out of the car, I was half-expecting the place to be as chaotic as my arrival, but blimey, what a belter of a first impression. It’s one of those classic Somerset cottages – all honeyed stone and low beams, the kind that’s been standing since the Bishops of Bath and Wells were lording it over the cathedral close nearby. The key safe clicked open first go (thank goodness, after the mirror fiasco), and stepping inside was like tumbling into a hug from an old mate. The sitting room hit me first: a cosy nook with a wood-burning stove begging for a fire, squashy sofas in muted greens, and a telly discreetly tucked away so you actually want to chat instead. Sunlight slanted through leaded windows onto a farmhouse table littered with fresh scones, clotted cream, and a jar of local strawberry jam – a welcome basket that screamed “relax, you daft sod, you’ve made it.”

Up the creaky oak stairs (mind your head, as the beams cheekily reminded me), the bedrooms were pure bliss. Mine had a king-sized bed piled high with feather pillows and a quilt that looked homemade, overlooking a bloom-heavy garden where bees were already buzzing about the lavender. The en-suite was compact but spot-on – a rainfall shower that blasted away the drive’s stresses in seconds, with fluffy towels warmed on the rail. I flopped onto the bed for a moment, staring at the exposed rafters, and had one of those gentle what-am-I-doing-with-my-life reflections. Back home, it’s all deadlines and doom-scrolling; here, in this 17th-century bolthole, time slowed right down. Why do we wait so long between escapes like this?

Chaos forgotten, I wandered out for first impressions of Wells itself – it’s literally a stone’s throw. The cathedral’s spires pierced the clearing sky, and I nipped over to the market square for a pasty from the bakery, chatting with locals about the Vicars’ Close (that impossibly quaint street of medieval houses – picture-perfect, even in the drizzle). Back at The Bolt by teatime, I lit the stove, cracked open a bottle of Somerset cider from the welcome goodies, and savoured the quiet. The garden patio called next, with its bistro set and views of rolling fields dotted with sheep. Dusk fell soft, bats flitting about, and I thought, this is it – arrival pandemonium be damned, The Bolt’s got that magic where first impressions stick forever. If you’re after a Somerset starter like this, book it; just check your wing mirrors twice.