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 rethink my entire approach to holidays. You know those trips where you pack in hikes, pub crawls, and sightseeing until you’re knackered? Forget that. This time, in our cosy stone cottage near Bakewell, the plan was simple: do bugger all, and do it brilliantly. Nestled in a quiet valley with rolling hills just visible through the mist, it was the perfect spot to switch off completely.

From the moment we arrived, the hot tub became our command centre. Perched on a wooden deck with views over sheep-dotted fields, it bubbled away invitingly under a canopy of stars most nights. I’d sink in with a GandT – Tanqueray, naturally, with a slice of lime – and let the jets knead away the stresses of real life. One evening, as the sun dipped behind Mam Tor, I caught myself staring at a wood pigeon waddling across the lawn, mesmerised. Who knew pigeons could be so riveting? My mate Dave reckoned I was turning into David Attenborough, but there’s something meditative about it. No agenda, no rush – just warm water, wildlife, and the occasional splash fight that left us giggling like kids.

Days blurred into a hazy rhythm of pure indolence. Breakfast was a faff-free affair: fresh eggs from the farm shop down the road, scrambled and scoffed in our dressing gowns on the sun-trap patio. Then it was straight to the squishy corner sofa with a stack of books. I devoured a battered copy of Alan Bennett’s diaries I found on the shelf – perfect for a lazy Peak District read – while the wood-burner crackled away. Outside, Derbyshire’s gentle drama unfolded at its own pace: tractors chugging by, the odd curlew calling overhead. I’d glance up now and then, but mostly I was lost in pages, tea going cold beside me. Lunch? A ploughman’s from local cheddar and crusty bread, eaten picnic-style without moving more than five feet.

Afternoons were for what I’ve dubbed “cottage drifting”. A gentle potter to the kitchen for cake – Bakewell pudding, obviously, procured from the town’s famous bakery – then back to the hot tub or a hammock strung between apple trees. One drizzly day, we lit the fire early and played board games till our eyes drooped. No guilt about not conquering the Monsal Trail or queuing for Chatsworth House. In fact, the joy was in resisting it all. I had a proper moment of self-reflection there, staring into the flames: back home, I’m always chasing the next deadline, the next thrill. Here, doing nothing felt like the ultimate luxury. It’s daft how we forget that slowing down recharges you more than any adrenalin hit.

Evenings sealed the deal. We’d rustle up a simple supper – Derbyshire oatcakes with cheese and ale from the microbrewery in Ashbourne – then back to the tub as twilight turned the hills purple. One night, under a blanket of Milky Way (light pollution? What’s that?), I pondered how this lazy idyll was the holiday I never knew I needed. No FOMO, no Instagram flexing. Just us, the cottage’s fairy lights twinkling, and the soft burble of the tub.

Coming home, I’m already plotting a return. Derbyshire’s got endless corners for this kind of bliss – think Hartington or the Hope Valley for similar setups. If you’re knackered from life’s treadmill, book yourself in. Trust me, mastering the art of doing very little might just be the best adventure you’ll ever have.