I’ll never forget the drive up to the Peak District last month – me at the wheel, kids in the back bickering over who got the last Haribo, and the sat-nav deciding to throw a proper wobbly just as we hit the winding lanes near Macclesfield. It rerouted us down some narrow track that had me convinced we’d end up in a farmer’s field, heart thumping as branches scraped the sides of the car. But we made it, and pulling up to this fine cottage next to the old Cheshire Hunt Inn – where the hunt used to ride out from back in the day – all that stress melted away. What a first impression: rolling country views stretching out like a postcard, and Bollington’s old mill village just a short stroll down the hill. I was buzzing with that holiday anticipation, you know, the kind where you imagine cosy evenings and proper fresh air.

The cottage itself was spot on for our family – comfortable living in a historic spot that felt lived-in and welcoming, not some sterile hotel. We dumped the bags and cracked open the windows to that crisp Peak District breeze. First order of business? A potter around Bollington. It’s only a ten-minute walk, past drystone walls and babbling brooks, to the canal where the kids went feral feeding the ducks and trying to skim stones. We grabbed ice creams from the local shop – none of your fancy gelato, just proper 99s with a flake – and watched narrowboats chug by. Pure bliss, that simple stuff.

Back at the cottage, it was all about embracing the chaos of family life. Breakfast was a comedy of errors: burnt toast (my fault, naturally), jam everywhere, and the youngest insisting on “helping” with the eggs, which ended up more like a scramble in every sense. But we laughed it off with mugs of builder’s tea, then headed out for a gentle hike up to Tegg’s Nose. It’s not far, maybe a couple of miles from the door, but steep enough to work up an appetite. The views over the Cheshire Plain were cracking, and we picnicked on cheese rolls and pork scratchings, the kids charging about like wild things while I flopped on the grass, pretending I was fitter than I am.

Evenings were the best – firing up the barbecue (after a minor charring incident with the sausages), playing board games by lamplight, and spilling into stories about nothing much. One night, as the sun dipped behind the hills, I had a quiet moment staring out at the view, thinking how these daft, messy days with the family are what it’s all about. No screens, no rush, just us lot soaking up the simple pleasures of cottage life. The Peak District has that magic – rugged enough to feel adventurous, but gentle for a relaxed break. We left with muddy boots and fuller hearts, already plotting the next trip. If you’re after that vibe, this neck of the woods delivers every time.