I’ve just come back from the most gloriously lazy week in a cracking holiday cottage in Northumberland, and honestly, it’s made me question my entire approach to life. Tucked away in the rolling hills near Alnwick, this place was pure bliss – a cosy stone-built beauty with fluffy towels, a wood-burning stove, and – the star of the show – a steaming hot tub on the private deck. No grand plans, no packed itineraries. Just me, a stack of books, and the art of doing sod all. And let me tell you, it was perfection.

Picture this: arriving after a gentle drive up from Newcastle, past those epic castles like Bamburgh looming on the horizon, but instead of charging off to explore, I dumped my bags and sank straight into the hot tub. The water was bubbling away like a witch’s cauldron (minus the eye of newt), surrounded by nothing but sheep-dotted fields and the occasional buzzard overhead. I stayed there so long my fingers went pruney, sipping tea from a thermos and watching the sun dip behind the Cheviot Hills. Who needs a spa when you’ve got this? It was my daily ritual – morning, noon, and especially twilight, when the sky turns that moody purple-pink that Northumberland does so well.

The cottage itself was made for lounging. Plump sofas piled with cushions, a telly bigger than my flat’s kitchen, and a kitchen stocked with local treats I’d picked up from a farm shop en route – Northumberland cheese, scones with clotted cream, and jars of heather honey. Breakfast was a non-event: pyjamas on, kettle on, then back to the sofa with a book. I devoured three paperbacks that week – nothing highbrow, just escapist yarns about plucky detectives in the Lakes (close enough). Reading in peace, with only the tick of the clock and the odd bleat from outside, felt like a luxury I’d forgotten existed. No notifications pinging, no emails nagging. Just words on a page and the rain pattering softly on the slate roof, which it did most afternoons in that quintessentially British way.

One morning, I did venture out – but only as far as the garden swing seat, wrapped in a blanket, with a mug of builder’s tea. The air smelled of damp earth and wild gorse, and I spent hours just staring at the clouds scudding over. Lazy days like that make you reflect, don’t they? I caught myself thinking about how I’m always rushing – work deadlines, gym sessions I hate, social media scrolls that go nowhere. Here, time stretched out like toffee. Why do we fill every minute? A mate once joked I’m like a Duracell bunny on steroids, and lounging in that cottage proved him spot on. It was a gentle nudge: slow down, you daft sod.

Evenings were hot tub o’clock again, bubbles fizzing around me as stars popped out over the dark skies – Northumberland’s got some of the best stargazing in the country, no light pollution to spoil it. I’d nibble on fish and chips delivered from a nearby chippy (proper haddock, mushy peas, the works), then toddle inside for a GandT and more reading by the fire. No pubs, no hikes, no Instagram poses at Hadrian’s Wall (though it’s only a short drive if you fancy). Just me, marinating in contentment.

Coming home felt like waking from a dream, but I’ve brought a sliver of that slothful joy with me. Next weekend? Hot tub envy and a book on the go. If you’re after a proper break – the kind where recharging means precisely bugger all – find yourself a Northumberland cottage like mine. It’ll do wonders.