I’ll never forget the drive to Blakeney that Friday afternoon – we’d set off from Norwich full of beans, only for the sat-nav to chuck us into a massive queue of caravans crawling along the coast road. What should’ve been an hour turned into two, with me drumming my fingers on the wheel and my other half suggesting we pull over for fish and chips to pass the time. In the end, we laughed it off with a bag of crisps from a service station, and by the time we trundled into the village, the anticipation had built up nicely. Blakeney looked like a picture postcard in the late sun, all quaint lanes and that salty sea air hitting you straight away.

Pulling up to the cottage, my first impressions were spot on – a beautifully styled traditional brick and flint place tucked away in the heart of Blakeney, just a two-minute walk from the quay. Deceptively spacious and furnished with comfort and quality high on the list, it felt like Sea Holly House was made for unwinding. We dumped the bags, cracked open a bottle of wine on the kitchen table, and just breathed it all in. No grand plans, you see – that was the whole point of this trip. After a hectic few months at work, I was desperate to do bugger all, and this spot was perfect for it.

The garden was the star of the show, really. A proper suntrap, sheltered by hedges and bursting with wildflowers, it begged you to flop into one of those cushy loungers with a book and a cuppa. I spent the first morning there, feet up, lost in a dog-eared P.G. Wodehouse novel, while the missus dozed under her hat. The only interruption was a cheeky robin hopping about, eyeing up our biscuit crumbs. Lunch was a lazy affair – fresh bread from the village bakery (just down the lane), some local cheese, and tomatoes from the garden plot they’d left for us. We ate outside, watching the clouds drift, and I caught myself thinking how rare it is to just sit without scrolling or rushing.

Afternoons blurred into the same blissful rhythm. A gentle wander to the quay for an ice cream from Morston’s – nothing strenuous, mind, just enough to feel the breeze off Blakeney Point and spot the seals basking on the mudflats. Back at the cottage, it was more reading, maybe a nap on the sofa with the windows flung wide to catch the harbour sounds. Evenings meant lighting the fire (even in summer, Norfolk chills can sneak in), supper cobbled from whatever we fancied – pasta one night, a ploughman’s the next – and an early night with the sound of distant gulls.

There was this one moment, staring out at the garden on day three, mug in hand, when it hit me: I’d been checking my phone every five minutes back home, always chasing the next thing. Here, time stretched out lazy-like, and it was glorious. No FOMO, no lists – just the joy of pottering nowhere. We left feeling properly recharged, already plotting a return. If you’re after proper downtime, Blakeney’s your spot.