I’ve just got back from the most gloriously idle week at a holiday cottage in Norfolk, and honestly, it’s made me question my entire rushed existence. Tucked away down a leafy lane near the North Norfolk coast – think somewhere like Burnham Market or Wells-next-the-Sea – this place was a proper gem: a cosy 18th-century thatched number with wonky beams, a wood-burning stove, and a garden that spilled out into wild meadows. No itinerary, no grand plans. Just me, a stack of books, and the sheer bliss of doing sod all.

From the moment we arrived, the joy was in the sloth. I’d flop into one of those creaky wicker chairs on the patio, mug of tea in hand (proper builder’s brew, none of your fancy infusions), and let the day unfold at snail’s pace. The garden was the star – a riot of lavender, hollyhocks, and those massive floppy hydrangeas that Norfolk does so well. Bumblebees droning about, the odd butterfly flitting past, and in the distance, the flat Broads landscape stretching out like a green duvet. I’d sit there for hours, staring at nothing much, listening to the wind rustle the reeds. It was hypnotic. Who needs Netflix when you’ve got nature’s own screensaver?

Reading became my full-time gig. I’d hauled along a battered copy of Gerald Durrell’s *My Family and Other Animals* – perfect escapist fodder – and a fat historical novel about the Broads. Curled up on the window seat with the sun slanting through leaded panes, I’d lose myself in pages while the world outside pottered on without me. Lunch? A hunk of local Crusty’s bread from the village bakery, slathered in Norfolk honey, eaten straight from the foil while sprawled on a blanket in the grass. No cooking disasters here; the cottage fridge was stocked with cheeses from Walsingham and a bottle of Adnams ale that went down a treat at sunset.

There was this one afternoon when I tried to be ‘productive’ – pottering about with a trowel in the veggie patch, nibbling runner beans like a contented rabbit. But five minutes in, I abandoned it for a hammock nap under the apple tree. Woke up drooling on my book, with a ladybird on my nose. Hilarious, really. And it got me thinking: back home, I’m always chasing the next deadline, ticking boxes like a manic squirrel. Out here, time stretched like toffee. No emails pinging, no rush-hour grind. Just the gentle tick of the cottage clock and the realisation that slowing down isn’t lazy – it’s luxury.

Evenings were peak indolence. Fire crackling, feet up, a simple supper of smoked mackerel from the smokery down the road, paired with a glass of Norfolk rosé. We’d watch the sky turn pink over the marshes, maybe spot a barn owl ghosting by. No late nights; bed by ten, lulled by the hoot of wood pigeons.

Norfolk’s magic is in that quiet permission to unplug. If you’re knackered from life’s treadmill, book yourself into one of these cottages and embrace the art of bugger all. I’m already plotting a return – who needs adventures when idling so sweetly hits the spot?