I’ll never forget the drive down to North Devon – a proper faff from the start. We’d packed the car with enough books, snacks, and mismatched beach towels to last a siege, but halfway through Somerset, the satnav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us on a detour through some winding lanes that felt like they were auditioning for a horror film. Twisty turns, hedges taller than me, and a sudden downpour that had the windscreen wipers doing overtime. By the time we rolled into Bideford, I was knackered, but oh, the anticipation was building – visions of kicking back in our cosy apartment, no agenda, just pure unwind time.

Pulling up, the first impressions were spot on: a charming, modern spot tucked away yet right in the heart of things, with a lovely garden that screamed “come sit here and do sod all”. We dumped the bags, cracked open a cuppa, and that was it – holiday mode engaged. No grand plans, you see; this trip was all about the joy of bugger all. Lazy cottage days, as I’ve started calling them, where the highlight is watching the clouds drift by from a sun lounger.

The garden was an absolute dream for that. Overgrown in the best way, with comfy chairs under a pergola, bird feeders twittering away, and just enough breeze to keep things fresh. I’d settle in with a dog-eared paperback – some lightweight thriller that didn’t tax the brain – and lose hours. Lunch? A simple picnic of cheese and crackers from the local shops, eaten al fresco while the world slowed to a crawl. It was bliss, properly switching off from the daily grind.

Of course, we did venture out a tad, because even I can’t do absolute nothing forever. A gentle stroll straight from the door into Bideford was perfect – no car needed. The Tarka Trail tempted us for a flat, easy wander along the river, past that pretty park where locals walk their dogs. Popped into a few independent shops for quirky postcards and fudge, then eyed up the historic quayside for boat trips to Lundy Island (next time, maybe). Feeling peckish one afternoon, we hopped on a local bus to Appledore, that quaint fishing village just down the road. Wandered the craft shops, nursed a pint in a friendly pub, and demolished fresh seafood at a little restaurant – mussels so good they practically swam off the plate. Another day, a quick drive to Westward Ho! for a nose at those two miles of golden sand, dipping toes in the surf before retreating back to base camp.

It’s funny, isn’t it? We’re so wired for doing – ticking off lists, chasing sunsets – but there I was, mid-week, having a proper moment of self-reflection in the garden. Staring at the sky, I realised how rare it is to just be. No emails pinging, no rush. This North Devon hideaway nailed it, conveniently near the A39 for if we fancied a whim to Instow or Clovelly, but honestly, we barely scratched the surface. The Big Sheep or RHS Rosemoor could wait; doing very little was the real magic. If you’re after slowing down proper, this is your spot. I’m already plotting a return.