I’ll never forget the drive down to Devon last month – we’d packed the car to the brim with books, a cool box of pasties, and enough tea bags to last a siege. About halfway there, just past Honiton, the satnav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us down a narrow lane that felt more like a sheep’s personal runway. Branches scraping the roof, my other half muttering about “one of these days,” and me laughing it off while secretly panicking we’d end up in a field. But we emerged unscathed, and as we crested the hill towards Axminster, the rolling fields opened up, dotted with those classic Devon cows, and I could feel the tension melting away. This was going to be brilliant.

Pulling up to the cottage, my heart did a little flip – you know that buzz when a place looks even better than the photos? It was this cosy, traditional spot nestled in a quiet spot just outside Axminster, with flower baskets tumbling over the front and a proper thatched roof that screamed “proper holiday.” We tumbled inside, bags dumped in the hall, and straight away it felt like home. The living room had that lived-in charm, with squashy sofas begging you to flop down, and a kitchen that was kitted out just right for lazy brekkies.

But honestly, the real star was the garden. Enclosed and private, it sloped gently down with lawns perfect for stretching out, a patio with chairs that faced the hedges buzzing with birds, and flowerbeds bursting with lavender and roses. We spent the first afternoon just wandering it, breathing in that fresh country air, and I thought, “This is it – no plans, no rush.” Devon in summer has this magic way of whispering “slow down,” and we listened.

Most days blurred into this glorious rhythm of doing sod all, and it was pure joy. Mornings started late with tea on the patio, watching the sun climb over the trees while I cracked open a paperback – I devoured two whodunits that week, barely moving except to top up my mug. Lunch was simple: cheese from the local shop in Axminster, a stroll down there for supplies (it’s only a short hop), some crusty bread, and back to the garden table. Afternoons? Hammock time. I’d swing gently, half-dozing to the hum of bees, feeling the world shrink to birdsong and the odd distant tractor. One day, I even managed a whole chapter without fidgeting – a personal best.

There was this gentle moment of self-reflection on the third evening, sat there with a GandT as the light faded. I realised how wired I’d been back home, always chasing the next thing. Here, in this little Devon haven, doing nothing felt like the point. No epic hikes or tourist traps – just us, the garden, and time stretching out like warm honey. We did pop to the nearby river once, just to skim stones and listen to the water, but mostly it was cottage pottering: a bit of weeding for show, more reading, and early suppers of fish from the Axminster fishmonger, eaten outside as the stars popped out.

By the time we packed up, I was recharged without even trying. Devon’s got that knack – a few lazy days in a spot like this, and you come back softer around the edges, happier in your skin. Can’t wait to go back and do even less.