I’ll never forget the drive down to Devon – sat nav insisting we take some winding back lane that turned into a proper adventure when we got stuck behind a tractor doing about 5 miles an hour. Me and the wife were bickering over whether to overtake on a blind bend (we didn’t, thank goodness), and by the time we rolled into Instow, I was ready for a cuppa and a sit-down. But oh, what a sight greeted us. This cosy little cottage, all tucked away with its own private garden, just screamed “relaxation central”. First impressions? Spot on. The sun was dipping low over the estuary, and I could already picture lazy afternoons ahead.

We’d been craving a proper break, you know, the kind where you do bugger all and love every minute. No grand plans, no ticking off lists – just us, the garden, and whatever book I’d half-read on the journey. The cottage was perfect for it: compact but comfy, with doors straight out to that lush patch of green where birds flitted about like they owned the place. First morning, I plonked myself in a lounger with a mug of tea stronger than my resolve to exercise, watching the world go by. The garden’s a riot of colour in summer – roses tumbling over the fence, bees humming lazily – and it felt like our own little Eden, far from the daily grind.

Days blurred into this blissful rhythm of doing very little. Breakfast stretched into brunch as we lingered over toast and marmalade, then out to the garden with novels in hand. I devoured a battered paperback thriller, only pausing to top up my coffee or flick at a fly. The wife pottered with her gardening mags, occasionally reading bits aloud about hardy perennials (she’s got green fingers; I’ve got thumbs of death). We’d listen to the gentle lap of the river nearby, or spot a heron stalking the mudflats. Pure poetry, that. Lunch was simple – cheese ploughman’s from the village shop, eaten al fresco while the sun warmed our faces. No rush, no fuss.

One afternoon, I wandered the short riverside trail towards Bideford, just for a mooch. The path’s flat and easy, lined with wildflowers and the odd dog-walker nodding hello. Popped into a pub for a half of bitter, chatted with locals about the tide times, then ambled back as the light faded. Felt like I’d achieved something without lifting a finger. Westward Ho! was a five-minute drive away, but we only went once – sprawled on that golden beach, building a daft sandcastle that collapsed spectacularly, laughing like kids. Back at the cottage, evenings meant barbecues in the garden (I burned the bangers, naturally), a glass of wine, and stargazing from the loungers. No TV, no screens – just the rustle of leaves and each other’s company.

Looking back, that week was a gentle nudge to slow down. Life’s always rushing us, isn’t it? Work emails pinging, to-do lists breeding like rabbits. But there, in Instow’s embrace, I realised the joy’s in the nothing – the reading, the garden reveries, the unhurried chats. We left feeling recharged, promising ourselves more of it. If you’re after the same, pack a book and head to Devon. You won’t regret it.