I’ll never forget the drive down to Woolacombe last month – we’d packed the car with enough snacks to feed a small army, only for the sat-nav to chuck us into a cheeky diversion through some narrow lanes that had me white-knuckling the wheel. A rogue sheep decided to photobomb our progress, blocking the road like it owned the place, and we ended up laughing so hard we nearly missed the turning. But as we crested the hill and spotted the sea glittering below, all that faded away. The anticipation built – I could already taste the salt air and imagine kicking back without a care.

Pulling up to this luxury apartment, my first impressions were spot on: it’s a cracking spot, all cosy and modern with that effortless seaside vibe, tucked away in pretty Woolacombe just 400 metres from a three-mile stretch of golden sand. Perfect for families or a couple like us wanting a proper Devon do-nothing holiday. Two bedrooms meant we had space to sprawl, and from the off, it felt like the ideal bolthole for switching off.

The joy of it all was doing sod all, really – and I mean that in the best possible way. Our days melted into this glorious rhythm of laziness. Mornings started late, with coffee on the balcony watching the waves roll in, no rush, no agenda. The garden area was a dream – a sunny patch with loungers and a bit of grass where you could flop down with a book and let the world go by. I devoured a battered paperback thriller, only pausing to listen to the gulls squawking overhead or the distant chatter from families heading to the beach. It was pure bliss, that slow unravel of tension you didn’t even know you were carrying.

Afternoons? More of the same, but with a side of smug satisfaction. We’d wander the 400 metres to the independent shops for a pasty or ice cream – nothing strenuous, just enough to stretch the legs – then back for garden lounging. One day, I swear I spent three hours perfecting the art of cloud-watching, spotting shapes that looked suspiciously like cream teas and past holidays. The other half pottered with a podcast, feet up, while I reflected on how I’d become one of those people who actually enjoys idling. Me, the eternal list-maker, finally getting the memo that slowing down isn’t slacking – it’s essential. There’s something profoundly restorative about North Devon’s breezes whispering through the garden, urging you to breathe deep and let go.

Evenings brought gentle strolls to the nearby traditional pubs for a pint of local ale, or a lazy supper from one of the enticing restaurants just down the road – fish and chips eaten back in the garden under fairy lights. No grand adventures, no paddleboard heroics for us; we hired them once but mostly watched others from afar, content in our inertia. Windswept walks along the beach happened if the mood took us, but mostly it was about savouring the scenery from a prone position.

By the end of the week, I felt rebooted, lighter. If you’re after sea breezes and that rare gift of time to just be, this is your spot. Woolacombe worked its magic – proving sometimes the best holiday is the one where you do the least.