I’ll never forget the drive down to Hove – one of those classic British road trips where everything starts off promising but throws in a cheeky curveball. We’d packed the car with enough books, snacks, and tea bags to last a siege, humming along to the radio as the M25 mercifully spat us out towards Sussex. But just past Gatwick, wouldn’t you know it, the satnav decided to have a midlife crisis and rerouted us through some winding lanes that felt like they hadn’t seen daylight since the war. We ended up in a queue behind a tractor doing about 10 miles an hour, laughing until we cried. Still, it built the anticipation – by the time we trundled into Hove, I was buzzing to just flop into our holiday spot and forget the world.

Pulling up to the place was pure magic, right from that first glimpse. Tucked away like a secret, it’s this delightful first-floor mews flat, formerly the living quarters for the coachmen back when Brunswick Terrace had stables for horses and carriages. You feel that history whispering as you climb the stairs, but it’s all cosily modern inside, just a stone’s throw from the beach, shops, and a cracking pub – coast, shop, and pub all 0.1 miles away, if you’re counting. Brighton Pier and the lively buzz of the city are a quick stroll off, but honestly, who needs that when you’ve got this gem?

The real joy? Doing sod all, and loving every lazy minute. Our first morning, I cracked open the French windows to the shared garden – a proper suntrap with benches under leafy arches, buzzing with bees and the odd butterfly doing laps. I plonked myself down with a pot of tea and my battered copy of a P.G. Wodehouse novel, letting the world slow to a crawl. No agendas, no alarms, just the distant crash of waves from Hove beach mingling with birdsong. My other half pottered about with a crossword, occasionally reading out a clue that had us both in stitches – “What’s a five-letter word for idle? Oh, wait, us!”

Afternoons blurred into siestas on those garden seats, a cold drink sweating in the sun while I flicked through pages, half-dozing as the sea breeze rustled the pages. We’d wander all of 100 yards to grab fish and chips from a local spot or pop into the pub for a pint of something crisp, but mostly it was about unwinding. One evening, as the sun dipped low over the pier (visible just along the promenade), I caught myself staring at nothing, utterly content. It hit me then – back home, I’m always rushing, ticking boxes, but here in this little mews haven, time stretched out like toffee. A gentle nudge from the universe: slow down, mate, life’s too short not to savour the quiet bits.

By the end of the week, we’d barely scratched the surface of Sussex’s charms – a gentle amble along the pebble beach, toes in the shallows, or lounging in that garden with a picnic from the corner shop. Leaving felt like waking from a dream, but what a tonic. If you fancy recharging without the faff, this Hove hideaway’s your spot – pure, unadulterated bliss in doing precisely nowt.