Just got back from the loveliest week in a cosy holiday cottage in the Peak District, and I’m already plotting our return. Tucked away in a quiet hamlet near Bakewell, this place was pure Derbyshire magic – stone walls, slate roof, and a garden that backed straight onto rolling hills. It slept six of us comfortably: me, my husband, our two lads (aged 8 and 10), and my sister with her little one. No fancy spa or infinity pool, mind – just a wood-burning stove, a telly the size of a postage stamp, and enough board games to keep us occupied through a power cut.

We arrived on a drizzly Friday, which is basically Derbyshire’s welcome mat. Unpacking in the rain felt like a rite of passage, but once we’d cracked open a bottle of wine and got the stove roaring, it was all forgotten. First morning, we wandered down to Bakewell for the famous tart – flaky pastry, fruity filling, and that cheeky dollop of cream. The boys demolished two each, declaring it better than any shop-bought rubbish. We picnicked by the River Wye, chucking stones and dodging ducks who eyed our crumbs with gangster-like intent. It’s those simple bits that hit different on holiday – no screens, just soggy sandwiches and giggles.

Country life chaos kicked in proper on day two. We’d planned a gentle hike up to Dovedale, that stunning gorge with stepping stones and limestone cliffs. Picture this: me, striding ahead like a proper influencer in my new wellies, only to slip arse-over-tit on the first wet rock. The kids howled with laughter, my husband snapped a photo (which he swears he deleted), and suddenly we were all in stitches, paddling barefoot like idiots. Self-reflection moment: I’m not half as coordinated as I think I am, but slipping up literally makes for the best family stories. We dried off with hot chocolate at a nearby café, then mooched around Tissington Village, peeking into the well-dressings – those floral village art things that are peak British eccentricity.

Midweek, we embraced the cottage vibe fully. Mornings meant fried breakfasts on the Aga (black pudding for the brave, which ruled me out), then pottering in the garden. The boys built dens from logs and old blankets, emerging muddy as badgers for elevenses. Afternoons were for lazy drives – a stop at Chatsworth House for a gawp at the gardens and a cheeky ice cream, pretending we were posh estate folk. The chaos peaked one evening when a rogue sheep decided our veg patch was its personal salad bar. Chasing it off with a broom while the kids cheered from the window? Comedy gold. We roasted marshmallows that night, telling ghost stories about the Black Shuck or whatever local legend we could cobble together. Quiet reflection there: in the daily grind, we forget how these daft moments knit us tighter as a family.

Evenings were blissfully low-key. Pub grub at the local in Youlgrave – pie and peas, proper ale, and a rare kid-free pint for the grown-ups while the little ones played Connect 4. Back at the cottage, we’d sprawl by the fire, the rain pattering on the windows like white noise. No itinerary, no pressure – just us, unwinding amid the hills’ gentle drama.

Derbyshire does that family break thing spot-on: wild enough for adventure, snug enough for hibernation. We left with full bellies, filthy boots, and memories that’ll outlast any Instagram post. If you’re after proper relaxation laced with a bit of lovely disorder, book a cottage there now. Trust me, your socks will never be the same, but your heart will thank you.