I’ll never forget the drive down to Tollard Royal – one of those classic British road trips where everything’s going swimmingly until it isn’t. We’d piled into the car in the Cotswolds, full of that buzzy anticipation of escaping the daily grind, kids chattering about pub lunches ahead, when halfway through Salisbury Plain, the satnav decided to throw a wobbly. It rerouted us down some winding B-road that felt like it hadn’t seen tarmac since the war, complete with a flock of sheep blocking the way. Cue mild panic and a hasty three-point turn. But honestly, it just added to the fun – by the time we trundled into the village, we were laughing it off, hearts lifting at the sight of our gorgeous six-bed cottage nestled right there.

First impressions? Blimey, it was love at first sight. Tucked away in this peaceful spot within a massive 7,000-acre estate, it had that perfect cosy charm – think rambling garden bursting with wildflowers, a sprawling lawn begging for deckchairs, and those big windows framing views of rolling hills that made you want to pinch yourself. Walking distance to the local pub? Result. We dumped the bags, cracked open a bottle of fizz, and just... exhaled. After months of rushing about, this was our chance to do precisely nothing, and we grabbed it with both hands.

The joy of those lazy cottage days was pure bliss. Mornings started slow – no alarms, just the sound of birdsong filtering through the garden. I’d potter out with a cuppa, settle into one of the loungers with a dog-eared paperback (I finally cracked on with that Middlemarch I’d been lugging around for years), and let the world fade away. The kids, bless ’em, discovered the simple thrill of den-building under the trees or just sprawling on blankets with games of Uno. No schedules, no screens – just the gentle rustle of leaves and the odd bee buzzing by.

Afternoons blurred into the same unhurried rhythm. We’d wander the garden paths, picking blackberries if they were ripe, or flop in the shade with picnic blankets and whatever was in the fridge. One day, I caught myself staring at a butterfly for a good ten minutes, mesmerised by its wings. Proper mindfulness without trying. Evenings meant ambling to the pub for a pint and pie – nothing fancy, just that warm village welcome that makes you feel like a local. No need for grand plans; the estate’s trails were there if we fancied a gentle stroll, but mostly we didn’t. Shaftesbury’s just eight miles off for essentials, but we barely stirred.

Looking back, it was a gentle nudge to slow down. In our hectic lives, we forget how restorative doing bugger all can be – recharging in that garden idyll, letting thoughts wander like the clouds overhead. Selfishly, I had a moment of quiet reflection one sunset, book forgotten, realising how rare it is to just be. Tollard Royal worked its magic; we left fuller, slower, and already plotting a return. If you’re after proper holiday peace, this is it.