I’ll never forget the drive to Blakeney that crisp autumn morning – we’d set off from Gloucestershire full of beans, only for the sat-nav to chuck us into a massive tailback just past the Forest of Dean turn-off. A lorry had shed its load of hay bales right across the road, and there we were, me and Sarah, sipping thermos tea and laughing about how our grand holiday escape was already turning into a proper British farce. But once we’d crawled past, the lanes opened up, winding through those lush Gloucestershire hills towards Blakeney, and the anticipation bubbled up. We couldn’t wait to just flop into our little holiday spot and switch off.

Pulling up to the property, my first impressions were spot on – this cosy studio apartment in the heart of bustling Blakeney was everything we’d hoped for. Tucked away in a prime spot, it had that inviting open-plan vibe with a plush double bed tucked in the corner, perfect for lounging about with the telly on. The compact kitchen was kitted out nicely too, ideal for knocking up simple suppers without any faff. It felt like our own little bolthole, away from the daily grind.

From the off, we embraced the joy of doing bugger all – and I mean proper, unapologetic slothing. Our first morning, we ambled out to the garden, mugs of tea in hand, and just sat there as the sun filtered through the leaves. Blakeney’s got that gentle hum about it, with locals pottering past on their walks and the odd dog barking in the distance. No rush, no plans – we sprawled on the loungers with books we’d been meaning to crack open for months. I devoured a battered paperback thriller while Sarah lost herself in her rom-com novel, the pair of us giggling over the daft bits now and then.

Lazy cottage days like these were pure bliss. Afternoons blurred into napping in the shade, listening to the birds and the faint chatter from the high street nearby. We’d wander five minutes to grab fresh pasties from the village bakery – flaky, steaming beauties filled with proper local cheese – then retreat for a picnic right there in the garden. No grand hikes or tourist traps; just us, slowing right down. One evening, as the light faded, I caught myself staring at the sky, thinking how I’d spent years chasing deadlines back home, always onto the next thing. Here, time stretched out like warm toffee, and it hit me: sometimes the best holiday is the one where you do precisely nowt but breathe.

By the end of our stay, we’d read three books each, shared a dozen pots of tea, and felt utterly refreshed. Blakeney and this little apartment nailed it – a reminder that unwinding in such a cracking spot is the real treat. Can’t wait to go back and do even less.