I’ve just come back from the most gloriously lazy week in a cracking holiday cottage in County Durham, and honestly, it’s made me question my entire hustle-and-bustle life back home. Tucked away in the rolling hills near Barnard Castle, this place was pure bliss – a cosy stone-built gem with all the luxury trimmings, but the real star? Doing sod all, and loving every minute.

From the moment we arrived, after a straightforward drive up the A1, I knew this was my kind of holiday. No grand itineraries, no ticking off tourist spots. The owners had left fresh scones and local jam on the kitchen table – proper Northern welcome that – and we barely made it past the front door before kicking off our shoes. The cottage had this massive picture window overlooking the Dales, sheep dotted about like fluffy clouds, and I plonked myself on the squashy sofa with a cuppa, watching the world go by. Who needs the Yorkshire Dales National Park when you’ve got that view from your armchair?

The hot tub was the absolute hero of the stay. Nestled on a private wooden deck, steaming away under the stars, it became our daily ritual. Mornings? A lazy soak with the sun creeping over the fells, bubbles fizzing around me as I sipped builder’s tea strong enough to strip paint. Evenings? Red wine (a bottle of County Durham’s own vineyard plonk, cheekily) as the sky turned that deep purple you only get in these parts. One night, I stayed in there so long my fingers were like prunes, and I emerged looking like a contented walrus. Utterly ridiculous, but brilliant. It’s funny how something so simple can make you feel like royalty.

Days blurred into this perfect rhythm of sweet nothing. Breakfast was hobnailed eggs and bacon from the local farm shop in Teesdale – none of that healthy nonsense – eaten at a rickety table outside if the weather played ball, which it mostly did, with that crisp Pennine air. Then, book in hand, I’d retreat to the window seat with its pile of cushions. I devoured three paperbacks that week: a detective yarn set in the North East (spot-on with the accents), a bit of historical fiction about the Durham coal mines, and some light rom-com rubbish that had me chuckling aloud. No phone, no scrolling – just turning pages as the light shifted across the moors. I caught myself thinking, ‘Blimey, when did I last read for pleasure without feeling guilty?’ It’s a sad indictment of modern life, innit? We’re all rushing about, but here, time stretched out like warm toffee.

Afternoons were for proper lounging. A wander down the garden path to pick blackberries if I fancied a token bit of ‘activity’ – enough to justify the second slice of cake from the Beamish bakery we’d snaffled on the way up. Otherwise, it was dozing in a hammock, listening to the curlews calling over the valley, or fiddling with the wood burner as the evenings cooled. Dinner? Slapdash pasta with herbs from the cottage pots, or a cheat’s night with fish and chips from a chippy in nearby Middleton-in-Teesdale, eaten on our laps while bingeing a box set. No washing up till morning, obviously.

Reflecting on it now, that week was a gentle nudge: why do we pack holidays with ‘experiences’ when the best one is switching off? County Durham’s got its castles and cathedrals, sure – Durham City’s a stunner – but from our bubble of laziness, they felt like distant rumours. We did pop out once for a cream tea at a tearoom in the Wear Valley, but even that was more excuse for another hot tub session after. Coming home, I’ve vowed to channel a bit of that cottage calm into daily life – maybe a weekly ‘do nowt’ evening. If you’re after a reset button, find yourself a spot like this in Durham’s hidden corners. Trust me, it’ll do you the world of good.