I’ve just come back from the most gloriously lazy few days 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 – you know, that town famous for its pud – this place was pure bliss: a cosy stone-built gem with fluffy towels, a telly bigger than my lounge, and best of all, a steaming hot tub on the private deck overlooking rolling hills. No itinerary, no alarms, just me, a stack of books, and the kind of sloth-like pace that feels revolutionary after months of deadlines.

From the moment we arrived, after a gentle drive through those winding lanes flanked by drystone walls and bleating sheep, I knew this was about doing sod all. Unpack, crack open a bottle of Derbyshire ale from the local farm shop, and flop onto the squishy sofa by the Aga. The cottage had one of those wood-burning stoves too, but on our first evening, we barely bothered lighting it – too knackered from the joy of arriving. Instead, I cracked open my battered copy of *The Wind in the Willows*, the perfect Peak District read, and let the world outside fade into a hazy green blur. Who needs hikes up Mam Tor when you can trace Ratty and Mole’s adventures with a mug of tea going cold beside you?

The hot tub, though – oh, that was the star. Every afternoon, I’d sink into its bubbling warmth, bubbles fizzing up to my chin, staring at the sky turning from grey to pink over the dales. No phones allowed; mine was on charge inside, forgotten. One time, I stayed in so long my fingers pruned like old raisins, and I emerged giggling to myself, wrapped in a towel thicker than a duvet. “You look like a boiled lobster,” my mate quipped from the loungers, but it was the good kind of daft. We’d float there chatting nonsense about nothing – the sheep that wandered too close, wondering if they judged our idleness – before retreating for more reading by the window. I devoured half of Kate Atkinson’s *Life After Life*, losing hours to its twists, occasionally glancing up at a buzzard circling lazily overhead. It mirrored my mood perfectly: slow, unhurried, deliciously pointless.

Meals were another excuse for minimal effort. The cottage kitchen was stocked with basics, but we nipped to Bakewell for takeaway from a chippy – proper mushy peas and battered sausage – and ate it straight from the paper on the patio. No faffing with fancy recipes; just scoffing and savouring the quiet. One rainy morning, I reflected on how I’ve spent years chasing productivity like it’s a badge of honour, only to find real recharge in this nothing-much-ness. Staring out at the mist over the River Wye, I realised slowing down isn’t lazy – it’s the luxury we forget we need. That self-indulgent thought made me chuckle; me, the eternal to-do-lister, preaching mindfulness from a hot tub.

Evenings blurred into board games we never finished, more hot tub dips under the stars (did you know the Peak District’s dark skies are magic for stargazing without binoculars?), and bedtime with a hot water bottle and another chapter. No early starts for dawn walks – we slept till ten, woke to birdsong, and repeated the cycle. By the last day, my mate joked I’d turned into a proper Peak sloth, and he wasn’t wrong. Driving home through Edale’s valleys, I felt oddly full, not from overdoing it, but from savouring the art of sweet FA.

If you’re gasping for a break that’s all about the joy of bugger all, book yourself into one of these Peak District hideaways. Trust me, it’s the holiday your soul’s been whispering for.