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 left me wondering why I ever bother rushing about in life. Tucked away in a quiet corner near Bakewell – you know, that posh bit with the famous tart – this place was pure bliss: a cosy stone cottage with all the mod cons, surrounded by those rolling hills that make you feel properly small and insignificant in the best way. No grand plans, no hikes up Mam Tor (though I could see it from the garden, taunting me lazily). Just me, a stack of books, and the art of doing bugger all.

From the moment we arrived on Friday afternoon, the hot tub became my command centre. It’s one of those swanky ones on a private wooden deck, bubbling away with a view of sheep-dotted fields and the faint outline of gritstone edges in the distance. I sank in with a GandT – local gin from Bakewell’s distillery, naturally – and didn’t budge for hours. The water was scalding hot, just how I like it, turning my skin pinker than a tourist’s nose after a day on the fells. My other half tried to tempt me out with talk of a gentle stroll to the River Wye, but nah. “Why walk when you can prune like a forgotten houseplant?” I quipped, and that set the tone. We stayed put till the stars came out, chatting nonsense about nothing much, the kind of conversation that drifts like woodsmoke from a neighbour’s chimney.

Saturday was peak laziness. Breakfast was a faff-free affair: sourdough toast slathered in marmalade from the cottage’s welcome hamper, eaten in pyjamas at the kitchen table overlooking the garden. Then it was straight to the squishy sofa with a pot of tea and my latest read – a battered copy of *The Remains of the Day* that I’d been meaning to revisit. The cottage had this brilliant wood-burning stove, so I lit it despite it being mild outside, just for the crackle and that toasty fug. Hours slipped by as Stevens pottered on in my head, mirroring my own dawdle. I popped out once, purely for supplies: a pork pie and some Bakewell pudding from the village shop, plus more reading fodder from the second-hand bookshop. Back home, I sprawled in the garden hammock, swinging gently while the sun filtered through the sycamores. A magpie eyed me suspiciously from the drystone wall – “What you staring at? I’m on holiday,” I muttered, feeling absurdly content.

Reflecting on it now, there’s something profoundly daft about paying good money to go somewhere and then refuse to do anything. Back in London, I’m that fool glued to my phone, ticking boxes like they matter. Out here, time stretched like toffee. No emails, no deadlines – just the tick of the cottage clock and the occasional bleat from the field. It made me realise I’m rubbish at slowing down; I’m wired for bustle, yet this felt like medicine for the soul.

Sunday followed suit: more hot tub (obviously), this time with a cheeky bottle of Derbyshire sparkling wine that fizzed like the bubbles around me. We read aloud from a daft thriller, laughing at the plot holes, then dozed through a rain shower that pattered on the conservatory roof. Dinner was a lazy rummage in the fridge – local cheeses, chutneys, and crusty bread – eaten by candlelight because, well, why not? No rush to pubs or beauty spots; the Peak District’s magic seeped in anyway through the windows.

Driving home on Monday, with that post-holiday glow and a vague ache from all the lounging, I vowed to bottle this feeling. Do less, live more. If you’re after a reset, find yourself a posh Peak cottage and embrace the joy of sweet sod-all. It’s cheaper than therapy, and twice as bubbly.