I’ll never forget the drive down to that little hamlet near Dartmoor – the satnav decided to have a funny turn just as we hit the winding lanes around Bovey Tracey, sending us on a detour through a muddy farm track that had my other half gripping the dashboard like it was a rollercoaster. “Are we lost or on some secret scenic route?” she laughed, as I reversed out of a puddle deeper than my wellies. But honestly, that small mishap just built the anticipation – by the time we crested the hill and spotted the cottage nestled in its 24 acres of rolling Devon countryside, we were grinning like kids on Christmas morning. First impressions? Spot on. It looked like the perfect cosy retreat, all welcoming and tucked away from the world.

We’d booked it for a long weekend, craving nothing more than to switch off and do bugger all – and boy, did it deliver. No grand plans, no packed itineraries; just us, the garden, and the sheer bliss of slowing right down. The first afternoon, we dumped the bags, cracked open a bottle of local cider, and flopped into those garden chairs overlooking the fields. The air was that crisp Devon kind, with ponies grazing in the distance and birds doing their thing overhead. I spent hours there with a dog-eared paperback – some mindless thriller I’d been meaning to read for months – losing track of time as the sun dipped low. Pure heaven.

The hot tub was the star of the show, mind you. After a gentle wander around the garden paths (spotting butterflies and the odd rabbit), we’d sink into that bubbling warmth come evening, glasses of wine in hand, watching the stars pop out over Dartmoor’s misty edges. No rushing about – just steam rising, muscles melting, and the occasional “ooh, that’s the life” slipping out. Mornings were for lazy brekkies on the patio: fresh eggs from a nearby farm shop (picked up on that first supply run), toast slathered in clotted cream, and endless cups of tea while flicking through the papers. I’d nod off in the hammock mid-morning, book sliding onto my lap, only stirring for lunch – maybe a ploughman’s with cheese from the village deli, eaten al fresco as bees buzzed around the lavender.

It got me thinking, in one of those quiet garden moments, how daft we city folk are, always chasing the next thing. Here, doing very little felt like the biggest achievement. No signal stress, no emails pinging – just the rhythm of the countryside, a good natter with my partner about nothing much, and that deep contentment from simply being. We did venture out once, a short stroll to a nearby pub for a pint and a game of dominoes, but even that was low-key, back before dark to light the fire and read by its glow.

By the time we packed up, reluctantly, we’d made memories without even trying – the sort that stick because they’re so effortlessly joyful. If you’re after a break to recharge, find yourself a spot like this and embrace the art of faffing about. You won’t regret it.