I’ve just got back from the most gloriously lazy week in a holiday cottage in Norfolk, and honestly, it’s made me wonder why I ever bother rushing about in life. Tucked away down a leafy lane near the North Norfolk coast, probably somewhere like Burnham Market or Holt—those quintessential Broads-adjacent spots—this place was a dream. A cosy flint-walled cottage with a thatched roof, flower-filled window boxes, and a garden that rolled out like a proper English idyll. No itinerary, no alarms, just me, a pot of tea, and the sheer bliss of doing bugger all.

From the moment we arrived, the plan was to embrace sloth. Mornings started late, with birdsong filtering through the sash windows instead of my usual phone buzz. I’d shuffle out to the garden in slippers, past rambling roses and lavender buzzing with bees, to flop into a creaky wooden lounger. Norfolk’s big skies stretched overhead, all fluffy clouds and that fresh, briny breeze off the marshes. I’d crack open a book—something fat and forgettable like a P.G. Wodehouse or a dog-eared detective novel from the cottage’s shelf—and lose hours. Who needs Netflix when you’ve got Jeeves getting into scrapes and the odd bumblebee dive-bombing your mug?

Lunch was a non-event: hunks of local bread, Norfolk Dapple cheese from a nearby farm shop, and whatever jam was in the pantry. Eaten right there in the garden, crumbs on my lap, watching the world go by at snail pace. One afternoon, I swear I dozed off mid-chapter, waking to find a cheeky robin eyeing my scone. “Help yourself, mate,” I mumbled, too idle to shoo it. It’s these daft moments that stick—the pure, unadulterated joy of not giving a toss about productivity.

Afternoons melted into pottering, if you can call it that. A gentle wander to the end of the garden, where hollyhocks towered and the faint cry of curlews carried from the salt marshes. No hikes, no selfies at Blickling Hall—just back to the lounger with fresh Earl Grey. Evenings? Cosy up by the Aga with a GandT (Norfolk’s own Adnams gin, naturally), feet up, as the sun dipped low over the fields. The cottage had that perfect hush, broken only by the tick of a grandfather clock and the odd owl hoot later on.

Looking back, I had this quiet epiphany one drizzly afternoon, staring at raindrops pattering on the herbaceous border: I’m knackered from city whirl, aren’t I? Always chasing the next thing, when what I really needed was this—permission to slow right down. Norfolk’s magic isn’t in grand adventures; it’s in these lazy cottage days that recharge your soul without you even trying. If you’re after proper holiday heaven, find yourself a spot like that and just… be. I’m already plotting a return.