I’ll never forget the drive up to the Lake District – rain lashing the windscreen like it had a personal grudge, and me cursing as the sat-nav decided to send us down a narrow lane that turned out to be more puddle than path. We’d left Manchester full of beans, sandwiches packed and the dog bouncing in the boot, but halfway through, splash! – we hit a massive pothole and the tyre pressure light started flashing. Typical me, faffing about in the downpour changing it myself while the missus held an umbrella that was about as much use as a chocolate teapot. Still, we laughed it off, and by the time we trundled into that sleepy rural village near Waberthwaite, the clouds were parting like they knew we’d earned a break.

Pulling up to the cottage, my heart did a little flip – it was even better than the pics. Tucked into four acres of lush gardens attached to the owners’ Victorian pile, with the River Annas chuckling through the grounds like an old mate saying hello. This place was originally a watermill from 1700-something, pet-friendly to boot, and screaming “relaxation station”. We dumped the bags and cracked open a beer on the patio, soaking in those first impressions: birdsong, wildflowers nodding in the breeze, and not a soul in sight. Pure bliss.

The joy of it all was doing bugger all, really. No grand hikes or tourist traps – just lazy cottage days stretching out like a cat in the sun. Mornings kicked off with brekkie in the open-plan kitchen, faffing about with eggs and bacon while the woodburning stove crackled away. Then it was sofa time: me with a dog-eared paperback (some detective thriller I’d been meaning to read for months), her with a magazine, both of us ignoring the telly unless it was for a soppy film. The shared hot tub became our daily ritual – slipping in mid-afternoon with a cuppa, steam rising as the dog paddled nearby, pretending he was a polar bear. Blimey, that thing worked wonders on the soul.

Afternoons melted into garden wanders. Those four acres were a dream – winding paths, hidden benches, and the river burbling like it was telling secrets. I’d plonk down with a flask of tea, watching clouds scud over the fells, feeling the world slow right down. One day, I even cracked open the games room for a bit of table football with the other half – we ended up in hysterics, her cheating shamelessly, but mostly we just lounged. No rush, no plans. The dog chased butterflies, we grazed on cheese and biscuits at the dining table, and evenings were stove-lit suppers, maybe a board game if we were feeling energetic.

Looking back, it hit me how knackered I’d been – always rushing, ticking boxes. This holiday was my gentle nudge to chill out, breathe deep, and remember that doing nowt can be the best thing ever. Bootle’s quiet lanes and that perfect retreat? They’ve got me hooked. Can’t wait to go back and do it all over again.