I’ll never forget the drive to Brancaster that Friday afternoon – sat nav guiding us along those winding Norfolk lanes, windows down, Radio 4 humming in the background. We’d packed light, just a boot full of wellies, books and a bottle of decent red, dreaming of proper downtime. Then, classic me, I missed the turn for the village by a good mile, ending up in a muddy farm track with the car beeping like it was personally offended. A quick reverse and a sheepish laugh later, we were back on track, hearts lighter for the daft detour.

Pulling up to this beautiful spacious, light and characterful detached property with its private annexe, tucked on a quiet lane right in the coastal village, I felt that proper holiday buzz. First impressions? Spot on. It’s a lovely flint cottage, close to the heart of the village with its much-loved pub, and just an easy walk from the sandy beach and Royal West Norfolk Golf Course. But honestly, who needs golf when you’ve got a spot like this? We dumped the bags, cracked open a cuppa, and that was it – the joy of doing very little kicked in.

The next few days blurred into the best kind of nothing. Mornings started slow, lounging in the garden with the sun filtering through, a pot of tea steaming on the table. I’d crack open my battered copy of Middlemarch – yes, I’m that person – and lose hours watching the birds flit about, the odd rabbit hopping past like it owned the place. The garden’s a proper haven, wildflowers nodding in the breeze, that perfect mix of tidy and untamed. No rush to be anywhere, just the hum of bees and distant waves from the beach. Lunch was a lazy affair: fresh bread from the village shop, some local cheese, eaten picnic-style on a rug. I caught myself grinning at how daft it felt, this deliberate slowing down. Back home, I’m all emails and deadlines; here, time stretched like toffee.

Afternoons? More of the same, blissfully. A gentle wander to the pub for a half of bitter and a game of dominoes with locals who didn’t care we were outsiders. Or just flopping in a chair with a podcast, feet up, letting the world spin without me. One evening, as the sun dipped low, painting the garden gold, I had a quiet moment of reflection – staring at the sky, thinking how I’d forgotten what it’s like to just be. No scrolling, no plans, just breathing in the salt air. We did dip a toe on the beach once, toes in the sand, but even that was half-hearted; the pull of the cottage was stronger.

By the time we packed up, I was hooked on this unhurried life. Brancaster’s magic isn’t in ticking boxes – it’s in the art of faffing about, reading that extra chapter, savouring the quiet. If you’re after recharging, this is the spot. Can’t wait to go back and do even less.