I’ll never forget the drive down to Devon last month – sat nav directing us through those twisty lanes near South Molton, and wouldn’t you know it, we hit a rogue flock of sheep blocking the road just as the sun was dipping low. Me, faffing about with the window down, cooing at the lambs while my other half muttered about being late for check-in. Classic us, turning a simple journey into a minor rural adventure. But honestly, it just added to the anticipation – that bubble of excitement building as we finally rolled up to this gorgeous little detached cottage, all cosy and tucked away in its own slice of peace. First impressions? Spot on. The garden stretched out like an invitation to flop, with hedges buzzing with bees and a hammock swaying gently in the breeze.

From that moment, it was all about doing bugger all – and I mean that in the best possible way. After unpacking (which took about five minutes, mainly hurling wellies by the door), we cracked open a pot of tea and claimed the patio chairs. The garden was an absolute dream: wildflowers nodding in the corners, a bird table alive with feisty robins squabbling over nuts, and not a neighbour in sight. I spent hours just gazing out, book in lap, pretending to read while really just letting my mind wander. There’s something magic about that Devon air, isn’t there? Thick with the scent of damp earth and honeysuckle, it wraps around you like a warm blanket.

Days blurred into this blissful rhythm of laziness. Mornings kicked off with brekkie on the picnic table – fresh eggs from a nearby farm shop (nabbed on that sheep-delayed drive), scrambled with a bit of cheddar, and endless mugs of builder’s tea. Then it was garden lounging: me in the hammock with a dog-eared copy of some Poldark novel, swinging lazily while the clouds scudded overhead. My partner pottered with a crossword, occasionally reading out a clue that had us both stumped and giggling. Lunch? A ploughman’s from the fridge – cheese, pickle, crusty bread – eaten al fresco, crumbs attracting every wasp in North Devon. Afternoons melted away with naps on the sun loungers, or a gentle wander to the garden’s edge, where butterflies danced around lavender bushes. No grand plans, no hikes up distant tors – just this perfect pocket of sloth.

One evening, as the sun turned the sky all pink and gold, I had a proper moment of reflection, sprawled on a blanket with a GandT in hand. Life back home’s a whirlwind – deadlines, emails, the lot – but here, time stretched out lazy as a cat in a sunbeam. I caught myself thinking, why don’t we make space for this more often? That gentle nudge to slow down, breathe deep, and savour the quiet joys. We did venture out once, just a short amble to a local pub for a pint and pie, but even that felt like an optional extra. Mostly, it was cottage bliss: reading till my eyes drooped, listening to the rustle of leaves, and feeling utterly, gloriously unhurried.

By the time we packed up, I was already plotting a return. Devon’s got this knack for reminding you that doing very little can feel like everything.