I’ll never forget the drive to Buckingham Lodge in Ellesmere – it was one of those journeys that starts off promising but quickly turns into a comedy of errors. I’d set off from home early, map on the passenger seat, thermos of tea in the cupholder, dreaming of a peaceful three-day escape in Shropshire’s gentle countryside. Shropshire’s always been my go-to for unwinding; those rolling hills, quiet lanes, and meres that make you feel miles from anywhere, even if you’re not. But about five miles out, just past the Welsh border signs, disaster struck. I’d popped into a layby for a quick stretch – you know how it is after a couple of hours on the motorway – and in my haste, locked my keys in the boot with my rucksack still inside. There I was, stranded by a cow field, fumbling with a coat hanger like some amateur cat burglar, while a couple of bemused dog walkers slowed down to gawp. “Need a hand, love?” one shouted, and I swear I turned beetroot. Twenty minutes and a kindly local with a spare wire later, I was back on the road, laughing at myself. Classic me – overpacking enthusiasm meets zero spatial awareness.

By the time I trundled into Ellesmere, the sun was dipping low, casting that golden Shropshire glow over the mere. Buckingham Lodge sits right on the edge of town, a proper gem of a holiday cottage that looks like it’s been plucked from a postcard. I pulled up the gravel drive, still chuckling about my boot fiasco, and there it was: this cosy, whitewashed lodge with roses rambling up the walls and a cheeky little porch swing creaking in the breeze. The SatNav had led me true, no more mishaps, and as I grabbed my bags (double-checking they were unlocked this time), the first wave of “oh yes, this is it” hit me. The owners had left the lights on, a jug of fresh milk and shortbread on the kitchen table – proper thoughtful touches that make you feel instantly at home.

Stepping inside was pure magic. The living room opened up with big sash windows framing views straight across the mere, where swans glided about like they owned the place. Plump sofas begged for a collapse, and that wood-burning stove? Already stacked with logs, just waiting for a chilly evening (though it was balmy enough for bare feet on the oak floors). I wandered through to the kitchen – all gleaming Aga vibes, farmhouse table big enough for mates who weren’t there, and herbs growing on the windowsill. Upstairs, the bedrooms were a dream: crisp white linens, fluffy towels folded just so, and from the main one, you could lie in bed watching the water sparkle. No chain hotels here; this was proper character, the kind of place that whispers “relax” without trying too hard.

First impressions? Blown away. I cracked open a window, brewed a cuppa from their posh leaves, and just sat on the swing outside, mere lapping gently below. The air smelled of cut grass and wildflowers, with Ellesmere’s high street just a stroll away if you fancied a pint at the Red Lion or fish and chips from the van by the bridge. That lock-in mishap felt like a distant joke now – a silly hiccup that made the arrival all the sweeter. Made me reflect, too, on how we rush through life, keys in boots and all, forgetting to savour the simple joy of turning up somewhere that fits you like an old jumper. Buckingham Lodge did that for me in minutes. If you’re after Shropshire serenity without the faff, this is your spot. Can’t wait to go back – keys in hand, obviously.