I’ve just got back from the most gloriously lazy week in a Suffolk holiday cottage, and honestly, it’s taken me a good few days to readjust to the real world. Tucked away in the gentle folds of the Suffolk countryside near the village of Lavenham – you know, that postcard-pretty spot with its wonky timber-framed houses – this place was a proper haven for doing sod all. And boy, did I embrace it.

Picture this: a cosy 18th-century thatched cottage with roses scrambling up the walls and a garden that sprawls out like it’s auditioning for a Laura Ashley catalogue. The first morning, I stumbled out in my slippers (no one to judge, thankfully) and plonked myself in a creaky wicker chair under the apple tree. Breakfast? A cuppa and a croissant from the village bakery, eaten straight from the paper bag. No rush, no plans. Just the hum of bees and the distant low of cows from the fields beyond. Suffolk’s like that – flat, endless skies that make you feel small and slow everything right down.

The joy was in the nothing. I’d spend hours in the garden, feet up on a stool, nose in a dog-eared copy of some P.G. Wodehouse I’d brought along. The sun filtered through the leaves, turning everything golden, and I’d lose track of time watching clouds drift over. One afternoon, I tried weeding a flowerbed – proper half-hearted effort – but gave up after five minutes when a butterfly landed on my trowel. “Message received,” I chuckled to myself. Why fight it? This was holiday, not horticulture boot camp.

Evenings were pure bliss. As the light faded, I’d light the wood burner (it’s Suffolk, so even in summer it gets a bit nippy), crack open a bottle of local Adnams ale, and flop on the squishy sofa with another book. No telly, no scrolling – just the crackle of logs and the occasional hoot of an owl. One night, staring into the flames, I had a proper moment of reflection. Back home, I’m always rushing – emails, errands, the lot. Here? Time stretched out like toffee. Made me realise how knackered I’ve been, chasing my tail. A week of faffing about had me feeling more rested than a month’s gym membership.

We did venture out once, for a gentle potter to nearby Dedham Vale – Constable country, all Constable clouds and Constable cows. But even that was low-key: a thermos of tea on a bench, sketching a wonky tree (I’m no artist, mind). Back at the cottage by teatime, slippers on, repeat. Light humour in the mishaps, like when I nodded off mid-chapter and woke with a book on my face – classic me, but who cares?

If you’re after a break that’s all about recharging by doing precisely bugger all, find yourself a Suffolk cottage. It’s magic for the soul. I’m already plotting a return.