I’ve just come back from the most gloriously lazy week in a holiday cottage in Norfolk, and honestly, it’s the best thing I’ve done in ages. Tucked away in a quiet corner near the North Norfolk coast, probably somewhere like around Burnham Market or Wells-next-the-Sea, this place was pure bliss – a cosy thatched affair with roses rambling up the walls and a garden that begged you to do absolutely nothing but flop in it.

From the moment we arrived, the plan was simple: sod the sightseeing, we were here to switch off. No grand adventures, no packed itineraries. Just me, a pot of tea, and the art of faffing about. The garden was the star – wild and woolly in that proper Norfolk way, with lavender buzzing with bees, apple trees heavy with fruit, and a hammock strung between two gnarly old oaks. I’d swing there for hours, book in hand, listening to the distant cry of curlews over the marshes. Reading’s my weakness on these trips; I demolished a battered copy of Farthing Wood and half of a Philippa Gregory novel, pages turning slower than a lazy river. Who needs Netflix when you’ve got skylarks and the rustle of leaves?

Mornings were for ambling out in slippers to pick blackberries from the hedge – enough for a crumble later, if I could be arsed – then back inside for toast and marmalade on the cottage’s ancient Aga. That thing’s a beast; it radiates warmth like a hug from your nan. Afternoons blurred into siestas on the sun-drenched patio, feet up on a wonky wooden bench, watching clouds drift over the flatlands. Norfolk’s skies are massive, aren’t they? Endless and ever-changing, perfect for that hypnotic stare that empties your brain. I’d nod off with a cuppa going cold beside me, waking to the soft low of cows from a nearby field.

There was this one hilarious moment when I tried ‘gardening’ – yanking a few weeds while pretending to be eco-warrior of the year. Ended up flat on my bum in the compost heap, covered in mud like a right muppet. Laughed so hard I nearly wet myself. Proper reminder that I’m no green-fingered goddess; some of us are built for lounging, not labouring.

Reflecting on it now, as I slump back into London chaos, I realise how rare it is to just… stop. Life’s a mad dash usually – emails, deadlines, the works – but those cottage days forced me to breathe. No guilt over ‘wasted’ time; just the joy of a slowed pulse, a full belly from local sausages and Cromer crab (fetched from the village shop, naturally), and evenings with a GandT as the sun dipped low, painting the Broads in gold.

If you’re knackered and craving calm, find yourself a Norfolk bolthole like this. Do bugger all. It’s restorative magic. I’m already plotting a return.