I’ll never forget the drive down to the New Forest – or rather, the comedy of errors that got us there. We’d set off from London full of beans, sandwiches packed and the satnav chirping away happily. But halfway through, just past Winchester, I took a wrong turn onto some narrow lane that looked like it hadn’t seen tarmac since the war. Cue 20 minutes of reversing into a hedge while a farmer on a tractor gave us the side-eye. Classic me, always rushing to relax. Still, by the time we trundled into Godshill, the anticipation was bubbling – visions of ponytails wandering past and proper countryside air to wash away the city grime.

Pulling up to this charming two-bedroom holiday home on a working farm just outside Woodgreen – only a mile away – we were smitten straight off. It’s the sort of place that wraps you in a cosy hug: picture-perfect amid rolling fields, with ponies ambling by and birdsong for your wake-up call. No grand entrance needed; we just dumped the bags and flopped into the garden chairs, grinning like idiots. First impressions? Pure magic. The kind of spot that whispers, “Forget the itinerary, love.”

And forget it we did. The joy of this holiday was doing sod all – properly, blissfully. Mornings started lazy: brew a pot of tea, crack open a book (I finally got through that piled-up stack of paperbacks I’d been ignoring), and let the sun warm your face while the farmyard sounds hum in the background. The garden’s a dream – wildflowers nodding in the breeze, a hammock strung between trees begging for a snooze. We’d wander a few steps from the doorstep onto those scenic paths winding through the Forest, but honestly? Most days, we barely made it past the gate. Spotting deer in the distance or watching lambs frolic on the farm was entertainment enough.

Afternoons blurred into siestas and chats over homemade scones. One day, I even managed a whole chapter without nodding off – small victories. There’s something about the New Forest’s gentle rhythm that slows you right down. No rushing to Paultons Park or Marwell Zoo, tempting as they are just down the road. We skipped Salisbury Cathedral’s spires and Magna Carta too – history can wait. Instead, we savoured the stillness, the way time stretches when you’re not ticking boxes. A gentle horse ride along nearby trails crossed our minds once, but nah, the garden won every time.

Reflecting on it now, sat back home with the rain lashing the windows, I realise that’s the real gift of a place like this. In our mad world, choosing to do very little feels revolutionary. We came home recharged, not knackered from traipsing about. If you’re craving that same unhurried bliss – lazy cottage days, a cracking garden, and the simple pleasure of slowing down – treat yourselves to a stay here. It’s the New Forest at its most restorative.