I’ll never forget the drive down to the New Forest – sat nav on, tea flask in hand, and me humming along to some old Radio 2 tunes. We’d been dreaming of this break for months, just us two and the dog, escaping the daily grind for a proper unplug. But typical me, I took a wrong turn somewhere near Lyndhurst, ending up on a narrow lane that felt more like a pony path than a road. Ponies everywhere, staring at us like we were the intruders, and there I was, reversing into a bramble bush with the car beeping like mad. A right faff, but we laughed it off – nothing says holiday like a bit of unplanned adventure.

Pulling up to the cottage in Lymington, my heart did a little flip. It’s one of those classic New Forest holiday lets – cosy, detached, with a welcoming vibe that screams “put your feet up”. The garden wrapped around it like a hug, all lush and private, with birdsong filling the air before we’d even unpacked. First impressions? Spot on. Sun dappling through the trees, that fresh woodland scent wafting over – we were hooked already.

From that moment, it was all about doing sod all, and loving every second. No grand plans, no ticking off lists. We’d flop into the garden chairs first thing, mugs of builder’s tea steaming away, watching the world go by at snail’s pace. The New Forest has this magic for slowing you down; you can’t rush when there’s deer grazing just beyond the hedge and ponies ambling past like they own the place. I’d crack open a book – some daft crime thriller I’d been saving – and lose hours under the parasol, only stirring for a bacon butty or to chuck a ball for the dog. Bliss.

Lazy lunches were a highlight: fresh scones from the village bakery (Lymington’s got a cracking one five minutes away), devoured on the patio with the sun warming our faces. Afternoons blurred into siestas, me dozing with my hat over my eyes, while the other half pottered with a crossword. We’d wander the garden paths in the evenings, spotting butterflies and listening to the rustle of leaves – proper mindfulness without the yoga mat. One night, we even spotted a fox slinking through at dusk; magical, that.

It got me thinking, mid-book on day three, feet up on a garden stool: when did life get so frantic? Back home, it’s emails and errands non-stop, but here? Time stretched out like toffee. I felt a proper sense of calm wash over me, that gentle nudge to savour the small stuff. No screens, no stress – just the joy of bugger all. We did venture out once, a gentle stroll to the harbour for fish and chips, but even that was more dawdle than dash, sat on a bench watching boats bob.

Packing up felt bittersweet, but we left lighter, promising to return for more of the same. If you’re after a holiday that’s all about recharging in the loveliest way, find yourself a spot like this in the New Forest. It’s the perfect antidote to rushing about.