I’ll never forget the drive down to Padstow – a proper faff, really. We’d set off from Bristol full of beans, sandwiches packed and podcasts queued up, only for the sat-nav to chuck us into some narrow Cornish lane that felt more like a goat track. Branches scraping the car roof, and me panicking about scratching the paintwork while my other half laughed it off with a “relax, it’s an adventure!” By the time we emerged, sweaty and swearing off rural roads forever, we were both starving and desperate for a cuppa. But oh, the anticipation built as Padstow’s rooftops came into view – that buzz of knowing we’d soon be kicking back in our little slice of heaven.

Pulling up to the pet-friendly apartment, my first thought was “blimey, this is posh without trying too hard.” Tucked just steps from the town centre but in this blissfully private, tranquil spot, it screamed luxurious escape. Breathtaking views over the rooftops and out to the sea, perfect for couples or mates wanting to unwind. Our dog, Monty, went mental with excitement, tail wagging like a windscreen wiper on full pelt.

From that moment, it was all about doing sod all – and I mean that in the best possible way. No grand plans, no ticking off lists. We’d flop into the garden first thing, Monty chasing shadows while we nursed coffees and watched the world wake up. The garden’s a proper suntrap, wildflowers nodding in the breeze, and those views? You could stare for hours, letting your mind drift like the gulls overhead. I’d crack open a book – some trashy thriller I’d been saving – and lose myself till lunchtime, only stirring for a pasty from one of the shops down the road. Rick Stein’s influence hangs heavy here, but we kept it simple: creamy scoops from the ice cream parlour, maybe a mooch past the boutiques if the mood took us, but mostly? Nah.

Lazy afternoons blurred into evenings of reading in the sun, feet up, with the faint hum of the town drifting up like a lullaby. One day, I wandered down to St George’s Cove, that sweet little sandy beach less than a mile away, for a gentle paddle – water chilly as expected, but invigorating. Back at the flat, it was more garden lounging, Monty snoring beside me, and a cheeky GandT as the sun dipped. No bikes on the Camel Trail for us; that’s for the energetic sorts. We were here to slow right down, and it hit me mid-book, glass in hand: when did I last just *be*? Work’s non-stop whirl had me knackered, chasing deadlines like a headless chicken. This? Pure therapy. A gentle nudge that joy’s in the nothing-much.

Evenings, we’d amble to a cosy spot for fish and chips or a Michelin-worthy treat if we fancied poshing it up, then back to the apartment for telly and early nights. Padstow’s foodie fame is spot on – pasty shops to fancy nosh – but it’s the slowing down that stole the show. All-year-round magic, this place. We left feeling recharged, Monty with a new spring in his step, and me vowing to bottle that laziness for back home. If you’re after proper RandR, this is your spot. Utter bliss.