I’ll never forget the drive up to Bowness on Windermere – a proper British road trip, complete with a cheeky little mishap. We’d set off from the M6 full of beans, me at the wheel with a thermos of tea and the satnav promising a smooth three hours. But no, halfway through the twisty A591, we hit one of those classic Lakes downpours that turns the fells into a watery blur. I misjudged a puddle the size of Windermere itself, and splash – we hydroplaned right into a layby, soaking the car windows like we’d been dunked in the lake. Cue hysterical laughter from my other half, and a quick detour to a farm shop for flapjacks to steady the nerves. By the time we rolled into Bowness, hearts racing with that giddy anticipation of finally arriving, the rain had buggered off, leaving everything sparkling.

Pulling into the allocated parking spot felt like winning the lottery – no faffing about with street parking in a tourist hotspot. The apartment itself? A charming two-bedder right in the heart of the village, with those massive windows giving sneaky peeks of the lake. Stepping inside, it was love at first sight: open-plan living space drenched in light, a comfy lounge for flopping about with the telly or firing up the Bluetooth soundbar for some chilled tunes, and a dining table begging for lazy brekkies. It screamed “put your feet up” from the off.

But honestly, the joy of the whole trip was doing bugger all. After years of manic holidays – you know, ticking off lists like overachieving tourists – this was our deliberate rebellion: pure, unadulterated slowing down. Mornings started late, with coffee in hand, wandering out to the little garden area. It’s nothing fancy, just a peaceful outdoor nook with views that make you forget the world. I’d plonk myself in a chair with a dog-eared copy of a potboiler thriller, the sort you devour in one sitting, while birds twittered and the lake twinkled beyond. My partner would potter with a sketchpad, capturing the fells in lazy strokes, and we’d chat about nothing much – the shape of clouds, that time we nearly set fire to the barbecue on holiday.

Afternoons blurred into siestas. We’d amble all of five minutes to the lake’s edge for a gentle stroll along the shore, dodging the odd fellow holidaymaker with their proper walking boots, feeling smug in our flip-flops. Back home, it was cheese on toast at the table, feet up, maybe a nap on the sofa with the soundbar murmuring Radio 2. Evenings? A bottle of red, more reading under the lamps, watching the light fade over the water. No grand hikes up Scafell, no Beatrix Potter pilgrimages – just us, unwinding like we’d earned it.

Looking back, that gentle self-reflection hit me one sunset, book forgotten in my lap: when did we get so rubbish at switching off? This place reminded us it’s the small stuff – the quiet garden moments, the joy of a blank itinerary – that recharge the soul. We left Bowness feeling lighter, already plotting a return to do even less. Pure bliss.