I finally made it to Cornwall after what felt like the world's slowest drive down from Bristol. I'd packed the car with enough snacks to feed a small army – crisps, pasties, and a thermos of tea – but about halfway through Devon, disaster struck. A rogue seagull dive-bombed my windscreen, leaving a Jackson Pollock-style splatter that had me pulling over for an impromptu windscreen wipe with a pack of baby wipes. Laughing at myself in the rearview mirror, I thought, "Welcome to holiday mode, you daft sod."

As I turned off the main road and trundled down that quiet country lane along the riverside, my heart lifted. The anticipation had been building all week – visions of cream teas and crashing waves – but pulling up to this little apartment at the end of the lane? Pure magic. Tucked away in a peaceful spot by the River Inny, it had that perfect rural charm, close enough to Cornish hotspots like Bude's sandy beaches (just a short drive) but far enough to feel like your own secret hideaway. First impressions? Spot on – cosy, welcoming, and screaming "put your feet up."

From that moment, my holiday became all about doing bugger all, and it was bliss. No grand plans, no ticking off lists. Just lazy cottage days stretching out like the lazy river beside us. I'd wake to birdsong, brew a pot of tea, and flop into the garden with a book. That garden – oh, it's a proper suntrap, wildflowers nodding in the breeze, with the river murmuring just beyond the hedge. I'd spend hours there, alternating between chapters of my trashy novel and staring at nothing, letting my mind wander. One afternoon, I even tried my hand at a bit of fishing from the riverbank nearby – rod borrowed from the hosts, bait from the local shop. Caught nowt but a peaceful nap in the deckchair, which was victory enough.

The joy was in slowing right down. No rushing to Boscastle's harbour (a cheeky 20-minute drive if I fancied it) or Port Isaac's Doc Martin trails – though the proximity tempted. Instead, gentle strolls along the riverside path, picking blackberries and breathing in that salty, earthy air. Evenings meant firing up the little barbecue in the garden, grilling local sausages while the sun dipped low, painting the water gold. One night, sat there with a cider, watching bats flit about, I had a proper moment of self-reflection. Back home, life's a whirlwind of deadlines and to-dos – here, I realised how much I'd forgotten the simple thrill of just being. No phone signal half the time didn't hurt either; it forced the unplug.

By the end of the week, I felt recharged without lifting a finger. If you're after a spot to truly unwind – garden lounging, riverside reveries, and the art of doing sweet nothing – this is it. Cornwall at its laziest best. Can't wait to go back.