I’ll never forget the drive down to North Devon last month – me behind the wheel of our trusty old estate car, packed to the gills with wellies, books and enough tea bags to last a nuclear winter. We’d set off from Bristol full of beans, but about halfway there, disaster struck: a rogue flock of sheep decided to stage a sit-in right across the narrow lanes near Barnstaple. There we were, stuck for half an hour, engines idling, while the farmer tried to coax them back with what sounded like half-hearted whistling. I was fuming at first, but then we cracked open the crisps and turned it into an impromptu picnic in the car. By the time we rolled into Mortehoe, just as the sun dipped low over the dunes, any lingering grumpiness had evaporated.

Pulling up to the property, my heart did a little flip – it was one of those classic seaside cottages, all low-slung and cosy with a cheeky nod to surf vibes inside, whitewashed walls and mismatched furniture that screamed ‘kick back and relax’. First impressions? Spot on. The garden wrapped around it like a hug, wild and woolly with sea views peeking through the hedges, and that fresh, salty air hitting you like a promise of proper downtime.

From the off, this holiday was all about doing bugger all – and I mean that in the best possible way. No grand itineraries, no ticking off Instagram spots. Just lazy days melting into one another. Mornings started slow: I’d potter out to the garden with a mug of builder’s tea, plonking myself in one of those rickety chairs overlooking Woolacombe Bay. The sound of waves crashing in the distance was my alarm clock, and honestly, who needs a rude buzzer when you’ve got that? I’d lose hours there, nose buried in a battered paperback – some daft crime thriller that had me chuckling at the plot holes. The other half would join me later, armed with coffee and the papers, and we’d natter about nothing much: the neighbour’s cat eyeing us suspiciously, or how the clouds looked like they were auditioning for a Rorschach test.

Afternoons? More of the same, gloriously. A gentle wander down to the beach maybe, just a five-minute stroll away, to dip toes in the surf and collect a pebble or two before retreating. Back in the garden, we’d fire up the little BBQ for sausages and baps – nothing fancy, mind – then flop into hammocks with a cold cider, watching gulls wheel overhead. Evenings were pure bliss: windows flung wide, a chillout playlist on low, supper rustled up from local bits from the village shop. One night, I caught myself staring at the sunset, that pinky-orange glow spilling over the grass, and had a proper moment. Work’s been manic lately, deadlines chasing me like greyhounds, and here I was, utterly still. Felt like I’d been running on fumes and finally plugged into a charger. Silly, maybe, but it hit me: sometimes the best holiday is the one where you remember how to breathe.

By the end of the week, we’d achieved precisely nowt by normal standards – no hikes up coastal paths further afield, no conquering the surf – and it was perfect. Driving away, I was already plotting our return. North Devon’s got this magic for slowing the world right down, and that cottage was the heart of it. If you’re after proper rest, you won’t find better.