Just got back from the most brilliant week in a cosy holiday cottage in the Peak District, and I’m already plotting our return. It was one of those proper family breaks where you swap city stress for muddy wellies and endless cups of tea, and honestly, it was pure magic – chaos and all.

We rented this cracking stone cottage near Bakewell, the sort with low-beamed ceilings that make you duck if you’re over six foot (which I am, so plenty of accidental head-bumps for comic effect). It had a wood-burning stove, a garden tumbling down to a babbling brook, and views of those rolling hills that look like they’ve been painted by a particularly optimistic artist. Arriving on a drizzly Friday, we dumped the bags and cracked open a bottle of local ale while the kids – my two under-tens – immediately turned the garden into a muddy assault course. “Dad, it’s a swamp adventure!” they yelled, as I slipped trying to join in. Classic.

Mornings kicked off with proper fry-ups using eggs from the farm shop down the lane. We’d wander into Bakewell for their famous cherry tart – none of that posh afternoon tea malarkey, just sticky fingers and crumbs everywhere. One day, we hiked up to Mam Tor, that classic whaleback hill with winds that could lift a kite (or nearly me, at one point). The views were staggering – green dales stretching forever, sheep dotted about like fluffy clouds fallen to earth. The kids raced ahead, pretending to be explorers, while I puffed behind, realising I really ought to lay off the biscuits. Sat on top with flasks of tea and pork scratchings, we watched paragliders swoop like birds. Simple joys, innit?

Afternoons were for country life chaos. We tried a gentle cycle along the Monsal Trail, that old railway path through tunnels and viaducts – brilliant for families, flat as a pancake. But oh, the puncture! Halfway through a tunnel, my eldest’s bike decides to throw a wobbly. There we were, fumbling with a pump by torchlight, kids giggling hysterically as I swore under my breath (quietly, mind). Got it sorted with some farmer’s makeshift fix from a nearby barn, and carried on to a picnic of cheese ploughman’s from a Chatsworth estate shop. Laughing about it later over cottage shepherd’s pie, I had a quiet moment thinking how these mishaps are the glue of family memories – beats a slick hotel pool every time.

Evenings were hygge heaven. We’d light the fire, play board games (Monopoly turned into a full-scale riot over Mayfair), and listen to the rain pattering on the slate roof. One night, we drove to a nearby pub in Castleton for pie and pints – proper suet pastry, pints of bitter, and a ceilidh band that had the kids jigging wildly. Stargazing from the garden was a highlight too; no light pollution, just the Milky Way blazing overhead. Made me reflect on how we’re always rushing at home – school runs, work emails – but here, time slowed right down. Just us, the hills, and the odd owl hooting.

Ventured to Dovedale one morning, scrambling over stepping stones across the River Dove (slipped once, soaked a trainer – toddler triumph). The kids poked about limestone gorges, spotting dippers bobbing in the stream, while we munched flapjacks. Chaos peaked when a herd of sheep blocked the path, our youngest trying to “herd” them with a stick. Hilarious standoff, resolved by me bribing her with a chocolate from the rucksack.

Leaving was bittersweet – packing soggy boots, promising the kids we’d be back for more Peak shenanigans. It wasn’t glamorous; there were spider invasions in the bathroom and a dishwasher that sounded like a jet engine. But that’s the charm: unpretentious, heartwarming, with enough fresh air to reset your soul. If you’re after a relaxed family escape, grab a Peak District cottage. You won’t regret it – just pack spare socks.