I’ll never forget the drive down to the Cotswolds – a proper faff from the start. I’d packed the car the night before, convinced I was organised for once, but halfway through Gloucestershire, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us looping round some tiny B-road for what felt like hours. We ended up in a village pub car park, laughing at the sheep staring at us like we were aliens. Still, by late afternoon, we rolled into Cirencester, hearts lifting at the sight of those rolling hills, and pulled up to this gorgeous little cottage that looked straight out of a postcard.

First impressions? Blimey, it was love at first sight. A cosy stone cottage with a garden that begged you to kick off your shoes and flop down. We’d been buzzing with anticipation on the approach – imagining pub lunches and gentle walks – but honestly, from the moment we stepped inside, the joy of doing bugger all took over. No grand plans, just pure, lazy bliss.

The garden was the star of the show, really. Enclosed and private, with that quintessential English charm – flowerbeds bursting with lavender and roses, a couple of weathered benches, and a hammock swaying gently under the trees. I spent the first morning there with a cuppa, feet up, watching butterflies flit about while the sun filtered through the leaves. It was like the world had hit pause. My other half cracked open a book too, and we barely spoke for hours, just content in the quiet hum of bees and distant birdsong.

Days blurred into this delicious rhythm of slowing right down. Breakfast was a slow affair – fresh bread from the local bakery in Cirencester (a quick five-minute wander), slathered with jam, eaten at the garden table. Then it was reading time: I devoured a battered paperback I’d brought along, chuckling at the daft hero’s mishaps, while the clouds scudded overhead. Afternoons meant more of the same – a doze in the hammock, maybe a potter round the garden paths, picking a few herbs for a simple supper. One evening, I caught myself staring at a snail inching along a leaf, mesmerised. When did I last have time for that?

There was this gentle moment of self-reflection one rainy afternoon, sheltering under the cottage’s eaves with a pot of tea. I realised how knackered I’d been from city life – emails pinging, deadlines looming. Here, with nothing but the patter of rain and a good murder mystery, I felt myself unwind properly. No FOMO, no rush. Just being. We did venture out once or twice – a lazy amble to the Roman Amphitheatre just down the road, picnicking on the grass like kids – but even that was low-key, more excuse for fresh air than sightseeing.

By the end of the week, we were proper wrecks in the best way – recharged, giggling about our sat-nav disaster, and plotting a return. If you’re after a holiday where the highlight is doing sweet nothing in a cracking garden, this corner of the Cotswolds is pure magic. Slow down, you won’t regret it.