Just back from a cracking week in a luxury holiday cottage in Norfolk, and I’m already plotting our return. We rented this gorgeous spot near Burnham Market – think thatched roof, beams thicker than my thighs, and a kitchen bigger than our London flat. It was meant to be a proper family unwind, escaping the school run and work emails for some proper Norfolk peace.

First morning, I’m faffing about brewing tea in a massive Aga that could heat a village hall. The kids – Alfie, 8, and Lily, 6 – are straight out the French doors to the garden, which backs onto rolling fields dotted with those big Norfolk skies. No traffic, no sirens, just skylarks and the odd tractor rumbling by. We’d stocked up at the local farm shop in Holt: artisan bread, local cheeses that could make you weep, and crab from Wells-next-the-Sea. Breakfast turned into a chaotic picnic on the lawn, with juice spilling everywhere and the dog nicking sausages. Pure bliss, if bliss involves wiping sticky hands for an hour.

Days blurred into this lovely rhythm of simple stuff. We cycled the flat lanes to Holkham Beach – miles of golden sand where the kids built epic sandcastles while I pretended to read a book but mostly dozed in the dunes. The North Sea was bracing, as it should be; we dipped toes and shrieked like seals. Evenings were cottage chaos: board games by the wood-burning stove (Monopoly ended in tears and accusations of cheating – mine, obviously), then shepherd’s pie from local lamb, scoffed while watching the sunset paint the Broads horizon pink.

One highlight was a lazy punt on the River Bure near Wroxham. The owner had sorted bikes and a canoe, but we opted for the punt – me pootling along like a wannabe gondolier, kids dangling feet in the water, spotting kingfishers darting like jewels. We picnicked on smoked salmon sarnies and elderflower cordial, laughing as a heron eyed us suspiciously. Back at the cottage, we lit the fire pit for s’mores – American nonsense, but the kids adored it, faces smeared in marshmallow goo.

Of course, it wasn’t all Instagram-perfect. I had a moment staring out at the misty fens one foggy dawn, mug of coffee in hand, realising how knackered I’d been. Work stress melting away, replaced by this quiet contentment. Who knew mud on wellies and endless games of hide-and-seek could recharge the batteries better than any spa? Another time, mid-chaotic supper prep – flour everywhere, kids “helping” by taste-testing batter – I caught myself grinning like an idiot. In the rush of life, we forget these unpolished joys.

We wandered Blickling Hall gardens too, pretending to be posh while scoffing cream teas, and nipped to Cley Marshes for birdwatching (well, I tried; the kids mostly chased each other). Norfolk’s magic is its unhurried vibe – vast beaches, secret waterways, and that fresh air that makes you sleep like the dead.

Packing up felt brutal, but we left with sandy towels, full bellies, and memories thicker than the cottage’s stone walls. If you’re after family recharge without the frenzy, snag a Norfolk cottage. It’s not holiday; it’s home, but better.