I’ve just come back from the most gloriously lazy week in a holiday home rental in Ambleside, and honestly, it’s made me question my entire hustle-and-bustle life back home. Picture this: a cosy stone cottage tucked into the hills just outside the village, with those classic Lakeland views of fells rolling out like a green blanket. Ours was one of those luxury lets – think underfloor heating, a telly the size of a small cinema screen, and – the star of the show – a private hot tub bubbling away on the deck. I didn’t even unpack properly; just lobbed my case in the corner and cracked open a bottle of red.

From the off, the plan was to do sod all, and boy, did we nail it. No early mornings scrambling up Wansfell Pike or queuing for the buses into Windermere. Nah, our days unfolded at the pace of a sleepy sheep ambling across the road. Breakfast was a drawn-out affair: porridge with local honey from the farm shop in Ambleside (picked up on the one and only purposeful outing), eaten in pyjamas while staring out at Rydal Water shimmering below. Then, straight into the hot tub. It became our command centre. Sinking into that steaming water, jets massaging away the remnants of London stress, with a mug of tea in hand – pure bliss. I’d bob there for hours, watching clouds scud over the Langdale Pikes, feeling the world slow to a drip.

Reading was my superpower that week. I’d hauled a stack of paperbacks from the charity shop in Ambleside – nothing too brainy, just escapist thrillers and that new Richard Osman. Curled up on the squishy corner sofa by the wood burner (lit even in May because, well, Lake District weather), I’d lose myself for entire afternoons. The cottage had this perfect nook with a sheepskin rug and a reading lamp that didn’t flicker once. No distractions, no notifications – my phone stayed on airplane mode, buried under a pile of jumpers. One day, I clocked a solid eight hours with my nose in a book, only pausing for crisps and a cheeky GandT. Who needs a gym when you’ve got narrative immersion?

Evenings were hot tub redux, upgraded with fizz and fairy lights twinkling on. We’d chat lazily about nothing – the neighbour’s cheeky hens pecking at the fence, or how the fells looked like velvet in the dusk. Dinner? A massive roast from the butcher in the village, slung in the Aga while we soaked. No faffing about with recipes; just good, honest grub. One night, I reflected on how I’d become this productivity zombie back home, always chasing the next deadline. Here, doing nothing felt revolutionary. Lying back in the tub, steam rising like a personal spa fog, I realised slowing down isn’t lazy – it’s the point. Life’s too short not to savour the stillness.

There was that one hilarious moment when I tried to “embrace the outdoors” by wandering five minutes down the lane to the lake shore. Tripped over a tussock, ended up muddy and laughing, hot-tubbled straight after. Lesson learned: the joy’s in the inertia. Ambleside’s magic isn’t the hikes or the boats – it’s this permission to pause. If you’re after a reset, book a spot like that cottage. Do bugger all. You’ll thank me when you’re floating in your own bubble of calm, wondering why you ever rushed anywhere.