I’ll never forget the drive down to Looe – that classic Cornish road trip where the satnav decides to have a midlife crisis just as you hit the twisty lanes near Polperro. Mine kept rerouting us through what felt like someone’s driveway, and we ended up doing a three-point turn in front of a bemused farmer and his herd of cows. Laughable now, but at the time, with the kids moaning about needing the loo, I was ready to chuck the phone out the window. Still, as we finally crested the hill and spotted the sea glittering below, all that stress melted away. Looe was waiting, all salty air and promise of a proper break.

Pulling up to the cottage, my heart did a little flip – it was even lovelier than the photos, a cosy detached spot with a welcoming vibe that screamed “forget the world, stay here forever.” Sun streaming through the windows, sea views peeking from every angle, and that garden? Oh, it was the star of the show. Weedy in the best wild way, with rickety benches tucked under palms and hydrangeas, looking straight out over the harbour. First impressions? Spot on. We dumped the bags, cracked open a bottle of local rosé, and just… sat there, watching fishing boats bob about.

The joy of this holiday was doing sod all, and I mean that in the most glorious sense. No packed itineraries, no rushing to tick off beaches – just lazy cottage days stretching out like the tide. Mornings started with tea on the patio, me in my tatty deckchair, feet up, nose in a battered paperback. I devoured three novels that week, the kind you forget the plot of five minutes later but love every page anyway. The garden became our kingdom: sprawled on blankets with pasties from the bakery down the hill (proper ones, flaky and stuffed with steak), listening to gulls squawk and waves crash faintly in the distance.

Afternoons blurred into siestas – hammock swinging gently, kids building pebble castles at the bottom of the garden while I dozed with a hat over my face. We’d wander five minutes to the beach for a paddle in the shallows, toes in the cool sand, then back for more nothing. Evenings were fire pit chats, marshmallows toasting as the sun dipped behind the cliffs, turning the sea all pink and gold. One night, staring at the stars popping out one by one, I had a proper moment of self-reflection: when did life get so frantic? Here, time slowed to a crawl, and it felt like medicine for the soul. No FOMO, just this quiet contentment.

Sure, Looe’s got its charms – the odd stroll to Hannafore Beach for an ice cream, or fish and chips wrapped in paper from the quay – but we barely scratched the surface. That’s the magic of a spot like this: it invites you to switch off, breathe deep, and remember what holidays are really for. Leaving felt harder than arriving, but I’m already plotting a return. Cornwall, you’ve got me hooked on the art of bugger all.