I’ll never forget the drive down to Lyme Regis – we’d packed the car to the brim with snacks, books, and that vague sense of excitement you get before a proper seaside break. But about halfway there, just past Honiton, the satnav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us on a detour through some winding lanes that felt more like a goat track than a road. We ended up stopping at a random farm shop for a cuppa and a slice of cake to calm the nerves, laughing about how we’d almost turned a two-hour journey into a full-day adventure. Still, by the time we rolled into town, the sun was dipping low over the sea, and all was forgiven.

Pulling up to the place, my heart did a little flip – it’s one of those bright, spacious two-bedroom apartments in a building that used to be the old station hotel, now cleverly turned into luxurious pads that keep all the period charm like high ceilings and those gorgeous stained-glass windows. Dressed with such a clever eye for detail, it felt like stepping into someone’s stylish home-away-from-home, perfect for us lot wanting a lazy Jurassic Coast escape.

From that first moment, it was all about doing bugger all, and I mean that in the best possible way. No grand plans, no ticking off lists of must-sees. We’d wake to the sound of gulls, brew a pot of tea in the well-kitted kitchen, and flop into the comfy armchairs by the window with a good book. The garden out back was an absolute dream – a sunny terrace with pots overflowing with herbs and flowers, and those unbeatable views across to the Cobb. I’d spend hours there, feet up on a lounger, nose in a battered paperback, occasionally glancing up to watch the waves roll in. One afternoon, I caught myself just staring at a lone fishing boat bobbing about, mesmerised by how the light danced on the water. Pure bliss.

Lyme Regis itself is made for this kind of slowing down. A gentle wander along the harbour in the morning for a fresh pasty from the bakery, maybe dipping a toe in the sea if the tide was right, but mostly just ambling back to our spot. Lunch was often a picnic in the garden – cheese, crackers, and whatever we’d nabbed from the local deli – eaten cross-legged on a blanket while the world ticked on without us. Evenings blurred into reading by lamplight, with the stained glass casting colourful patterns on the walls, or sharing stories over a glass of wine as the day faded.

There was this one moment, sitting in the garden on day three, book forgotten in my lap, when it hit me: how often do we proper rush about, filling every minute? Here, doing nothing felt like the point. No FOMO, just this gentle unravelling of tension. We left feeling recharged, already plotting a return for more of the same. If you’re after a holiday that’s all about the joy of proper loafing by the sea, this corner of Dorset delivers in spades.