I’ll never forget the drive down to the Cotswolds – a proper faff from the start. We’d packed the car to the gunnels with crisps, books, and enough tea bags to sink a ship, only for the sat-nav to chuck us onto some winding B-road that felt like it hadn’t seen tarmac since the war. There I was, white-knuckling the wheel past hedgerows taller than me, while the kids in the back moaned about needing the loo. But as we crested that final hill and spotted the honey-coloured villages nestling in the valley, all that stress melted away. Little Rissington, our little slice of heaven, was just ahead, and my heart did a proper flip with anticipation.

Pulling into the off-road parking, we were gobsmacked. This beautifully-appointed lodge near Bourton-on-the-Water was even better than the photos – a family-friendly gem for the six of us, all contemporary elegance without a whiff of pretension. Stepping inside, the open-plan living space hit us like a warm hug: floor-to-ceiling windows flooding the place with light and those cracking views over the rolling fields. The kitchen was a dream for knocking up brekkies at the breakfast bar, and the sitting area with its squishy sofas and Smart TV promised cosy nights in. Bourton was only 2.2 miles away, but honestly, who needed it?

That first afternoon set the tone: pure, unadulterated laziness. We dumped the bags and flopped straight into the garden, a lush patch of green begging for deckchairs and daydreams. I cracked open my battered copy of a P.G. Wodehouse novel – Jeeves always hits the spot when you’re pretending to be on holiday from real life – while the other half sipped tea and watched clouds do their thing. The kids, bless ’em, lasted all of ten minutes before they were building daft fairy houses from sticks and conkers, then joined us for a spot of nothing much at all. No schedules, no screens (well, apart from a sneaky episode of Strictly later), just the hum of bees and the odd sheep bleating in the distance.

Days blurred into this glorious rhythm of doing sod all, and it was bliss. Mornings meant lazy brews in the kitchen, gazing out those massive windows as mist lifted off the meadows. Afternoons? Garden lounging with picnic blankets, me pretending to read while really just nodding off under a brolly. We’d wander the garden paths, picking blackberries if we fancied (they were everywhere), or flop on the sofas for a family natter about nothing. One evening, as the sun dipped low, painting everything golden, I caught myself reflecting: when did life get so frantic back home? Here, time stretched out like warm toffee, reminding me that slowing down isn’t slacking – it’s the point.

Even a gentle stroll to the nearby brook – barely a mile off – was more amble than hike, paddling bare feet and skipping stones till tea called us back. No grand adventures, just the joy of breathing deep in this rural retreat. By the end of the week, we’d done precisely what we came for: recharged our batteries on cottage days that felt like stolen time. If you’re after proper RandR in the Cotswolds, find yourself a spot like this and savour the sweet art of bugger all.