I’ll never forget the drive down to Devon – we’d set off from Bristol full of beans, singing along to the radio, but about halfway through the winding lanes, the sat-nav decided to have a hissy fit and sent us on a wild detour through some farmer’s field. Cue much faffing about with maps on our phones and a bit of good-natured bickering, but honestly, it just added to the adventure. By the time we trundled into that pretty Exmoor hamlet near Parracombe, the sun was dipping low, and my heart did a little flip of anticipation. What if it wasn’t as idyllic as the photos?

Pulling up, though, we were gobsmacked – straight away, it felt like coming home. This spacious wing of an attractive 18th-century farmhouse was everything we’d hoped for: comfy, well-appointed, with three bedrooms and four bathrooms to keep everyone happy (no more queueing for the loo!), and that private hot tub lurking out back like a cheeky promise of bliss. Tucked away in the hamlet, it’s spitting distance from Parracombe village and bang in the middle to Lynton and Combe Martin, but we barely ventured further than the garden gate.

The joy of it all? Doing sod all, really. After that faffy drive, we collapsed into the cushy sofas with a cuppa, gazing out at the rolling hills. The garden was a dream – wildflowers nodding in the breeze, a couple of weathered benches perfect for perching with a book. I’d brought along a stack of paperbacks I’d been meaning to crack for ages, and finally, no distractions. No emails pinging, no kids’ football matches, just me, a thermos of tea, and some daft detective novel that had me chuckling out loud.

Lazy days blurred into one another. Mornings meant pottering in the kitchen, rustling up bacon butties before flopping into the garden hammock. Afternoons? Hot tub time, bubbles fizzing away while we watched sheep amble by. One day, I swear I spent four hours flat on my back, cloud-watching and dozing, the kind of idle bliss you forget exists. The other half tried to tempt us out for a stroll to Parracombe’s thatched cottages or a nose around Combe Martin’s high street, but nah – why rush? We’d wander the garden paths instead, picking blackberries (well, more like nibbling them straight off the bush) and pretending we were proper country folk.

There was this one moment, mid-week, sat there with a GandT as the sun set, when it hit me: I’m always rushing about, aren’t I? Chasing the next thing, ticking boxes. Here, time stretched out like warm toffee. No plans, no pressure – just breathing it all in. Gentle self-reflection over a fizzy drink; who knew slowing down could feel this good?

By the end, we didn’t want to leave. That farmhouse wing? It’s got us hooked for next year already. If you fancy proper unwinding in North Devon, this is your spot. Pure magic.