I’ve just got 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 hustle-and-bustle life back home. Tucked away in a quiet corner near Bakewell, this place was pure bliss – a cosy stone-built beauty with all the mod cons, including a private hot tub that became my personal throne. No grand itineraries, no ticking off tourist spots; just me, a stack of books, endless cups of tea, and the sheer joy of doing sod all.

From the moment we arrived – me and my other half, plus our mates – it was clear this was a holiday for proper unwinding. The cottage sat amid rolling hills, with sheep bleating lazily in the fields and not a soul in sight. We dumped our bags, cracked open a bottle of Derbyshire ale (local stuff from Buxton Brewery, naturally), and straight into hot tub mode. That thing was steaming away on the sheltered patio, surrounded by fairy lights and views of the dales stretching out like a Constable painting. We spent hours there, bubbles fizzing, chatting nonsense about nothing much. “Fancy a hike up to Mam Tor?” someone joked on day one. We laughed it off and topped up our glasses instead. Who needs vertigo when you’ve got jacuzzi jets massaging your back?

Days blurred into this perfect rhythm of sloth. Mornings started late – think 10am, with the scent of fresh Derbyshire bacon butties wafting from the Aga-style cooker. We’d munch them on the squishy sofas by the wood-burning stove, rain pattering on the slate roof (classic Peak District weather). Then it was book time. I devoured three paperbacks that week – a cracking historical novel about Chatsworth House, some light crime fiction, and a mindfulness tome that felt hilariously on-the-nose. Curled up in the window nook overlooking the garden, with a tartan blanket and a thermos of builder’s tea, I lost entire afternoons. No Instagram scrolling, no emails; just turning pages and letting my brain idle. One mate even dozed off mid-chapter, book on his chest, snoring gently. We nicknamed him ‘Lord of the Lounge’.

Evenings were hot tub o’clock again, naturally. As the sun dipped behind the gritstone edges, we’d slip in with a picnic of local cheeses from the Bakewell market (cheddar sharp enough to wake the dead) and pork pies that were pure pastry heaven. Stars popped out overhead – no light pollution here – and we’d bubble away, toes pruned, debating the meaning of life or just rating crisp flavours. Light-hearted rows over salt and vinegar versus ready salted ensued, but nothing a dip couldn’t fix.

There were these quiet moments of reflection that snuck up on me, too. One drizzly afternoon, staring out at the mist-shrouded hills from the hot tub, I realised how knackered I’d been from city life. Always rushing, always achieving. Here, doing nothing felt like the ultimate luxury. No guilt, just contentment. Another time, mid-book, I caught myself smiling at how simple it was – no plans, no pressure. It made me vow to slow down more often, though knowing me, I’ll be back to frantic come Monday.

We did venture out once, purely for provisions: a potter to Ashford-in-the-Water for scones and clotted cream. But even that was leisurely, ambling along the river with zero agenda. Back at the cottage, it was pyjamas by 7pm, Netflix queued but barely watched, more reading, more tub time.

Leaving felt criminal. As we locked up, hot tub still calling my name, I promised myself a return. Derbyshire’s magic isn’t in the hikes or stately homes (though they’re smashing); it’s in these lazy cottage days that recharge your soul. If you’re after proper rest, book one. You won’t regret it – or more accurately, you’ll love not regretting a thing.