I’ll never forget the drive to the Isle of Wight that kicked off our holiday – or rather, the ferry crossing that nearly did me in. We’d piled into the car at Portsmouth, buzzing with that daft anticipation of escaping the mainland grind, only for me to realise halfway across the Solent that I’d forgotten the cool bag with all our picnic bits. Proper numpty moment, innit? But as the island came into view, those white cliffs gleaming under a proper blue sky, I was already grinning. By the time we trundled along the Military Road, windows down and sea air whipping in, any faff was forgotten.

Pulling up to the apartment felt like stumbling into a secret hideaway. Tucked in a wing next to a cosy little hotel, right in an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty, it had this unpretentious charm – think simple, welcoming vibes with everything you need and nothing you don’t. Freshwater Bay was just a stone’s throw away, its curve of water tempting for a dip or paddle, but honestly, from the off, I knew this trip was about doing bugger all. And I mean that in the best possible way.

The joy of it was the sloth-like rhythm we slipped into straight away. Mornings started late, with mugs of tea taken out in the garden – a proper suntrap of a spot, wildflowers nodding in the breeze and that vast coastal vista stretching out. I’d flop into a lounger with a dog-eared paperback, the kind you’ve meant to read for months, losing hours to lazy chapters while gulls wheeled overhead. No rush, no plans – just the rustle of pages and the distant crash of waves on the rocks below. My other half would potter about, maybe sketching a bit or napping under the parasol, and we’d chuckle about how we’d turned into these contented veggies.

Afternoons blurred into more of the same bliss. A gentle wander along the coastal path next door was as active as we got – puffing up Tennyson Down for those jaw-dropping views over the National Trust cliffs, then back for a cold drink and feet up. The garden became our kingdom; we’d lounge there till the sun dipped, watching fishing boats bob in the bay or spotting walkers heading west to the Needles. Totland and Colwell beaches were close enough for a saunter if the mood took us, but mostly we stayed put, savouring the slowness. There’s something magic about that – no golf on the nearby course, no boating jaunts, just the pure luxury of time stretching out.

One evening, as the light turned golden over the lighthouse way off east, I had a proper moment of reflection. Sat there with a GandT, book forgotten, I thought: when did I last switch off like this? Life’s always rushing you along, innit? But here, in this perfect little nook, doing very little felt like the point. We left feeling recharged, lighter – proof that sometimes the best holiday is the one where you barely move. If you’re after that same gentle unwind, Freshwater’s your spot. Can’t recommend it enough.