I’ll never forget the drive down to Tetbury – we’d set off from London full of beans, plotting pub stops and scenic detours, only for the sat-nav to chuck us into a proper rural detour. Some cheeky roadworks had us crawling behind a tractor for what felt like miles, with me humming along to the radio while my other half muttered about missing lunch. But honestly, by the time we rolled into that lovely thriving market town, built around its cracking seventeenth-century market hall, all was forgiven. The anticipation had been building – visions of cream teas and countryside rambles – and pulling up to our cosy apartment right in the heart of it all? First impressions were spot on. Tucked away yet buzzing with independent shops and cafes just a stroll away, it felt like we’d stumbled into a hug from the Cotswolds itself.

What we hadn’t banked on, though, was how utterly brilliant it would be to do bugger all. I mean, proper lazy cottage days – or apartment days, in our case – where the highlight is brewing a pot of tea and flopping into the garden with a book. The garden there was a dream, all lush and private, with birdsong for a soundtrack and not a whiff of urgency. I’d spend mornings propped up on a lounger, lost in some daft novel about village scandals (research for my own life, clearly), while the sun filtered through the leaves. Lunch? A slow wander to one of those fantastic little cafes nearby for a ploughman’s, then back for more reading. No schedules, no screens pinging – just the joy of slowing right down.

One afternoon, I caught myself staring at a butterfly doing loops over the lavender, thinking, ‘Blimey, when did I last just sit and watch the world tick by?’ It was one of those gentle moments of self-reflection – you know, realising life’s too short not to savour the quiet bits. We did venture out a tad, popping into the major antiques centre for a nose around (I nearly bought a wonky vase for the laughs), and grabbing fish and chips from a top-notch spot for garden feasting. But mostly, it was about that unhurried pace. Evenings meant a GandT in the garden as the light faded, chatting nonsense or saying nowt at all, with the faint hum of Tetbury’s bars drifting over.

If you’re after proper relaxation, this is it – no horse trials or water parks for us; we left that for the active lot at Cotswold Water Park. Chavenage House was tempting, just a short hop away, but why rush? Our few days melted into a blissful blur of reading, dozing, and the odd cream scone. Coming home, I felt recharged, not knackered. Tetbury’s got that magic – and our little apartment was the perfect spot to let it work its wonders. If you fancy switching off proper, get yourself there. You won’t regret it.