I’ve just come back from the most gloriously lazy week in a cracking holiday cottage in the Peak District, and honestly, it’s made me question my entire rushed existence. Tucked away in a quiet corner near Bakewell – you know, home of the famous tart – this place was a proper hidden gem. Stone-built with all the mod cons, including a private hot tub that became my personal spa. No itinerary, no grand plans. Just me, a stack of books, and the art of doing bugger all. And let me tell you, it was bliss.

From the moment we arrived, the vibe was set: slow down or get left behind. The cottage sat in a little wooded valley, with views of rolling Derbyshire hills that begged you not to rush off anywhere. Why hike up Mam Tor when you can flop on the squishy sofa with a cuppa, watching sheep amble by like they’ve got nowhere to be? Mornings started late – think 10am, with the sun filtering through leaded windows. I’d brew a pot of proper Yorkshire tea (even though we’re in Derbyshire, close enough), slice up some local Bakewell pudding from the village shop, and settle in with my latest read. P.G. Wodehouse this time – Jeeves and Wooster had me chuckling over the folly of busybodies. Who needs an alarm clock when the blackbirds outside are your gentle wake-up call?

The hot tub was the undisputed star. Perched on a private deck, steaming away under the stars most nights. After a day of precisely zero exertion, I’d sink in with a glass of Derbyshire ale from a microbrewery we’d spotted on the way in. Bubbles churning, Peak District skyline fading into twilight – it was like the world’s best bath with a view. One evening, as the jets massaged my shoulders, I caught myself staring at the Milky Way, thinking, “Blimey, when did I last just… look up?” No Instagram stories, no mates texting about their marathons. Just the gurgle of water and the odd owl hoot. Pure, unadulterated nothing.

Afternoons blurred into that hazy limbo where time loses all meaning. I’d wander five minutes to the garden, pick a few herbs for a lazy lunch – nothing fancy, just cheese on oatcakes with chutney from the local farm shop. Then back to the window seat, book in lap, legs up. The cottage had this massive skylight, so rain pattering down felt like a cosy blanket rather than a nuisance. Derbyshire weather being what it is – one minute drizzle, next a burst of sun – it was perfect for staying put. I tried once to “do” something energetic, like a gentle stroll to a nearby brook, but ended up sitting on a mossy rock for an hour, dipping toes in the chilly water and pondering life’s big questions. Like, why do we fill our diaries so full? Self-reflection moment: I’m guilty as charged. Back home, I’m all emails and errands, but here? Nah. The cottage whispered, “Stay still, mate.”

Evenings were hot tub redux, or firing up the wood burner with a bowl of pasta and more reading. No telly, which was a blessing – forced me to unplug properly. One night, we played board games till eyelids drooped, laughing over daft rules we’d invented. Gentle humour in the realisation that my competitive streak evaporates when there’s no prize but a good kip.

Derbyshire does this idleness like no other spot. Those timeless dales, drystone walls, and whispers of history make you feel small and unhurried. Leaving felt wrong – like abandoning a mate mid-story. Now I’m plotting a return, because sometimes the best holiday is the one where you achieve sweet sod all. If you’re after recharge, find a spot like this. Trust me, your soul will thank you.