I’ve just got back from the most gloriously lazy long weekend in a cracking holiday cottage in the Peak District, and honestly, it’s made me wonder why I ever bother rushing about. Derbyshire’s got this magical way of pulling you into its folds of rolling hills and drystone walls, but my trip wasn’t about conquering peaks or ticking off hikes. Nah, it was pure, unadulterated doing sod-all – and it was bloody brilliant.

The cottage was one of those luxury rentals tucked away near Bakewell, you know the sort: honey-coloured stone, exposed beams, and a hot tub bubbling away on a private terrace like it’s waiting for royalty. We arrived on a drizzly Friday afternoon – classic Derbyshire weather – and instead of venturing out for a soggy pub lunch, we cracked open a bottle of wine, chucked some logs on the fire, and flopped onto the squishy sofas. My other half suggested a quick wander to the local farm shop, but I waved him off with a grin. “Later,” I said. Later turned into never, and that was fine by me.

Saturday morning dawned misty over the dales, and we had grand plans for a gentle amble along the Monsal Trail. But as I squinted at the view from the kitchen window – sheep dotting the fields like fluffy commas – the pull of the hot tub won out. Slipping into that steaming water with a mug of tea (proper builder’s brew, none of your fancy herbal nonsense) felt like the height of sophistication. The bubbles massaged away the week’s tensions, and I just sat there, watching steam rise into the crisp air. Birds chirped, a distant tractor chugged – proper countryside symphony. I must’ve been in there for two hours, pruning like a forgotten shrub. Light bulb moment: when did I last let myself switch off like this? Work’s been a treadmill lately, and here I was, proving that happiness isn’t about the itinerary; it’s about the pause button.

Lunch was a lazy affair: ploughman’s from the cottage’s welcome hamper, devoured on the terrace with the radio humming Radio 2 in the background. No cooking marathons, no faffing about. Then it was book time. I’d packed three novels – a cosy crime, some historical fiction, and that Booker nominee everyone’s banging on about – but ended up rereading an old favourite, snuggled under a blanket by the Aga. The hours melted away; pages turned, kettle boiled on repeat, and the world outside could wait. Derbyshire’s beauty is in its invitation to slow down, isn’t it? Those endless green vistas whisper, “Stay put, love. You’ve earned it.”

By evening, we’d mustered the energy for the hot tub redux, this time with a cheeky gin and tonic under the stars. The Peak District night sky is something else – no light pollution, just a blanket of twinkles that makes you feel small and content. We chatted about nothing much: daft memories, dafter dreams. No scrolling, no notifications. Sunday followed suit – more reading, a spot of dozing, and a final hot tub soak as rain pattered on the roof. We did pop into Bakewell for their famous tart (sticky, flaky perfection), but even that was a 10-minute detour, eaten in the car park with crumbs everywhere. Hilarious, really – us poshing it up in a luxury pad, yet happiest with pastry on our laps.

Packing up on Monday, I felt recharged, not knackered. That’s the joy of these Derbyshire escapes: they remind you that doing very little is doing a lot. No FOMO, just full-on peace. If you’re after the same, book yourself in. Trust me, your soul will thank you.