I’ll never forget the drive down to Minehead – sat nav insisting we take some winding back road through the Quantocks that turned into a single-track nightmare. Just as I was starting to panic about scraping the wing mirrors on the hedges, a cheeky tractor trundled past, its farmer giving me a wave like it was all part of the fun. Half an hour late and mildly frazzled, we finally rolled into the Old Harbour front, and blimey, what a sight. The sea sparkling just yards away, pebble beach stretching out, and those fabulous views across the bay to the North Somerset coast – on a clear day, you could practically wave to Wales. My heart lifted instantly; this was going to be just the ticket.

The place itself is one of those cosy apartments right on the harbour, all charm and comfort with a nod to its historic spot. We dumped the bags, cracked open a cuppa, and that was it – holiday mode engaged. No grand plans, you see. I’d been knackered from work, dreaming of doing precisely nothing, and this spot was perfect for it. The first morning, I wandered out to the promenade, lined with those old inns and quaint cottages, breathing in the salty air while the world slowed to a crawl. There’s a peaceful grassy area just a step away with a kids’ playground – empty most days, which suited us fine – and the South West Coastal Path starting practically at the door. But instead of marching off, I plonked myself on a bench with a book, watching the waves lap and the lifeboat station chaps going about their business.

Lazy days blurred into one another, and I loved every minute. The garden area – well, it’s more of a shared suntrap overlooking the harbour – became our HQ. I’d lounge there with a pot of tea and whichever paperback I’d grabbed from the charity shop in town, losing hours to tales of adventure while mine involved zero effort. Lunch was a simple picnic from the nearby shops: pasties from the bakery, a bit of local cheddar, nothing fancy. Afternoons meant a gentle stroll along the prom, maybe peering into the Exmoor National Park gateway at the headland for those panoramic views, but never straying far. One evening, I even managed a nod to exercise by ambling past the superb park towards Minehead’s centre – just far enough for an ice cream from one of the seaside spots, dodging the families heading to the sandy beach and amusements. Butlins’ lights twinkled around the bay, a distant hum of fun we had no urge to join.

It was on day three, sprawled in the garden as the sun dipped over the coast, that I had a proper moment of reflection. There I was, mid-40s and usually rushing about like a headless chicken, suddenly content with birdsong, a gentle breeze, and the rhythm of the sea. Who needs steam trains or golf links when slowing down feels this good? We did pop into Dunster once for a cream tea – it’s close enough not to feel like effort – but mostly, it was about savouring the quiet. Blue Anchor’s shore was a lazy five-minute drive for pebble-skipping, but honestly, the joy was in the staying put. This Somerset hideaway taught me that the best holidays aren’t about ticking boxes; they’re about letting time stretch out like the bay itself. Can’t wait to go back and do even less.