I’ll never forget the drive down to Whitchurch in Devon – we’d packed the car to the brim with wellies, dog leads, and enough crisps to last a siege, only for the sat-nav to chuck us off at some random junction near Okehampton. Cue 20 minutes of me squinting at a crumpled map while the kids chanted “are we there yet?” from the back. Typical us, turning a straightforward two-hour jaunt from Bristol into a mini-adventure. But as we finally trundled down that narrow lane, past drystone walls and sheep-dotted fields, my heart lifted. Devon does that to you, doesn’t it? The anticipation built – would it live up to the photos? Blimey, it exceeded them.

Pulling up to this beautifully converted, detached barn, I was smitten straight away. Tucked just a short walk from the open moorland, it’s the sort of pet-friendly rural spot that screams “relax here forever”. Whitchurch feels like a proper hidden gem, close enough to Tavistock for a quick coffee run but far enough to forget the world. We unloaded in the crisp moor air, our spaniel Bertie bounding about like he’d won the lottery, and stepped inside to that cosy, lived-in charm that makes you exhale.

The real joy, though? Doing sod all. After years of manic holidays – theme parks, hikes till your legs scream – this was our deliberate flop-out. Lazy cottage days became the rhythm. Mornings started slow: I’d brew a pot of tea in the kitchen, the kind that steeps properly while steam fogs the windows. Then it was out to the garden, that perfect little haven with views stretching to the moors. We’d sprawl on the benches or flop onto blankets, books in hand. I devoured a battered copy of a Poldark novel – fitting, right? – while the others nodded off under floppy hats. Bertie chased imaginary rabbits, then conked out beside me, his snores a comedy soundtrack.

Afternoons blurred into siestas. A gentle wander up to the moorland path, just far enough to feel the wild breeze on your face, breathing in that earthy scent of gorse and grass. No agendas, no timetables. Back for lunch – simple stuff like cheese ploughman’s from the Tavistock market, eaten al fresco as the sun played hide-and-seek. Evenings? Cosy lamps on, a crackling fire (logs stacked ready, bless whoever thought that through), and more reading. I’d glance up from my pages, watching the family melt into the sofas, and feel this quiet glow. Who knew switching off could feel so electric?

One evening, as dusk painted the garden gold, I had a proper moment. Sat there with a GandT, feet up, I realised I’d been chasing “busy” for ages – work emails on the beach, scrolling feeds at dinner. Here, time stretched lazy like warm toffee. No guilt, just presence. It’s daft how rare that is, innit? We left fatter in the soul, promising to return for more of nothing. If you fancy slowing right down in Devon’s embrace, find a spot like this. You won’t regret it.