Just got back from the most brilliant week in a luxury holiday cottage in Suffolk, and I’m already plotting our return. Tucked away near Aldeburgh on the Suffolk coast, this place was pure magic – think weathered stone walls, a roaring Aga in the kitchen, and gardens rolling down to a private orchard. We rented it for a family break with the kids (ages 8 and 11), my husband, and the dog, chasing that elusive relaxed vibe away from the daily grind.

From the off, it was cottage life chaos in the best way. Arriving in the drizzle – classic Suffolk weather – we piled in with muddy wellies, only for the youngest to discover the underfloor heating and declare it “the world’s best trampoline.” Cue immediate unpacking frenzy, with everyone staking claims on the squishy sofas by the log burner. No rigid itineraries here; we let the days unfold around simple pleasures. Mornings started with brekkie feasts: proper bacon sarnies from local Aldeburgh bloaters (smoked fish that tastes like the sea itself), washed down with tea brewed in a massive teapot. The kids would scarper to the garden, building dens from apple crates and getting gloriously filthy.

Afternoons? We wandered the Suffolk Coastal Path, dodging cow pats and filling our lungs with that salty marsh air. One day, we hit Orford Ness – that eerie shingle spit with its Cold War relics. The ranger boat across the Alde estuary felt like smuggling ourselves into a nature documentary, seals popping up like nosy neighbours. The chaos peaked when the dog chased a phantom rabbit into the dunes, dragging me face-first into a gorse bush. Laughing till we cried, covered in sand, we picnicked on pork scratchings and crisps from the village shop. Pure, unfiltered joy.

Evenings brought the cottage glow. We’d fire up the wood-fired hot tub (luxury perk!), bubbles fizzing under a blanket of stars. Inside, it was board games gone wrong – Monopoly devolving into sibling squabbles over fake hotels, with me refereeing in a fluffy robe. Dinner was always a faff: me wrestling with the Aga to roast a shoulder of lamb from a nearby farm shop, while the kids “helped” by taste-testing everything. One night, the oven thermometer packed up, and we ended up with slightly charred spuds – but honestly, who cares? It tasted of family.

Reflecting on it now, sprawled back in our London flat, I realise how these little mishaps grounded us. In the rush of school runs and deadlines, we forget how healing it is to embrace the mess – no screens, just us lot bickering and bonding over wonky suppers. Suffolk’s gentle landscapes, from the reed beds of RSPB Minsmere (birdwatching heaven, if you can bribe the kids with binoculars) to lazy cream teas in Southwold, strip everything back to what matters. No grand adventures needed; just the rhythm of tides, crackling fires, and kids’ giggles echoing off beams.

If you’re after a proper family reset, book a Suffolk cottage. Ours was heaven in a thatch – chaos, comfort, and all. Can’t wait to go back and cock it up all over again.