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 tourist traps? Forget it. This time, in our little luxury rental near Bakewell in Derbyshire, the highlight was doing bugger all—and it was pure bliss.

Picture this: a cosy stone cottage tucked into a quiet valley, with those classic Derbyshire rolling hills stretching out like a green quilt. Ours had all the bells and whistles—exposed beams, a log burner (though we barely lit it, too toasty inside), and best of all, a private hot tub bubbling away on the deck. Arriving on a drizzly Friday, I dumped my bags, cracked open a bottle of Derbyshire ale from a local brewery, and sank into the hot tub as the rain pattered on the bubbles. No itinerary, no alarms. Just me, the jets massaging my shoulders, and the faint bleat of sheep in the distance. Heaven.

The days blurred into this perfect rhythm of sloth. Mornings started late—think 10am, with a fry-up of local sausages and eggs from the farm shop down the road. Then, straight to the garden swing seat with a pot of tea and a fat paperback. I devoured three books that week: a couple of Agatha Christies (perfect for the misty moors vibe) and some mindless rom-com novel that had me chuckling aloud. The cottage had this ace reading nook by the window, overlooking a babbling brook—ideal for zoning out. I’d glance up now and then at the peacocks strutting across the neighbouring estate (yes, really, posh Peak District style), but mostly, I was lost in the pages, feet up, world off.

Afternoons? Hot tub o’clock. Stripping down to swim shorts, I’d slip in with a GandT, letting the steam rise as the sun dipped behind Mam Tor. Derbyshire’s skies are dramatic— one minute blue, next a shower—but in the tub, it didn’t matter. I’d float there for hours, pondering life’s big questions like “Why don’t I do this more often?” It’s funny; I’m usually the chap rushing about, ticking boxes at work. But there, bubbles churning, I had this gentle epiphany: slowing down isn’t lazy, it’s essential. My phone stayed on airplane mode—no emails, no scrolls. Just the hum of the tub and the odd curlew call.

Evenings were peak indulgence. We’d wander five minutes to the village for pie and mash from the pub—nothing fancy, proper Derbyshire grub—then back for more reading by fairy lights, or a lazy Netflix binge on the massive telly. One night, I lit candles around the tub for a midnight soak under the stars. The Milky Way was ridiculous up there, away from city lights. I lay back, wine glass balanced on my belly, and laughed at myself: here I was, mid-40s, pretending to be on a spa retreat. But it felt right, you know? No FOMO, just full-on present.

By the end of the week, I’d achieved a state of zen I didn’t know I was missing. Leaving that cottage—complete with its underfloor heating and fluffy robes—felt like abandoning a mate. Derbyshire’s got it all for this kind of do-nothing holiday: those lush dales begging you to stay put, farm-fresh treats a stone’s throw away, and cottages built for unwinding. If you’re knackered from life’s treadmill, book one. Plonk yourself in the hot tub, grab a book, and let the world spin without you. I’m already plotting a return—same spot, same slouch. Cheers to proper holidays.