I’ll never forget the drive down to Herefordshire that crisp autumn morning – me at the wheel, trying to look like I knew exactly where I was going, while the satnav kept insisting we’d turned onto a “minor road” that was basically a sheep track. We’d picked up my mate Dave and his two lads en route, piling into the car with enough snacks to feed an army, only for the heavens to open just as we hit the border. Cue a frantic five-minute detour to scrape mud off the windscreen wipers with a Costa cup – classic us, turning a two-hour journey into a comedy of errors. But honestly, it just ramped up the anticipation; by the time we crested that final hill, hearts were light and grins were wide.

Pulling up to the red-brick barn conversion felt like stumbling into a hug from an old friend. It’s one of those places that whispers “relax” from the off – sturdy and welcoming, with a garden that stretched out like an invitation to do absolutely nothing. First impressions? Spot on. We dumped the bags, cracked open a few tins, and just breathed it all in. Herefordshire’s countryside rolled out around us, all gentle hills and golden fields, but we weren’t here to conquer it. Nah, this trip was about the joy of faffing about and switching off proper.

The garden became our kingdom those first few days. Picture this: canvas chairs plonked under the apple trees, a thermos of tea going cold because we’d got lost in a book. I’d brought a battered copy of some detective novel I’d been meaning to read for months, and suddenly, with no emails pinging or deadlines looming, the pages flew by. Dave was the same, sprawled out with his fishing mags, occasionally muttering about “the one that got away” while the kids built epic dens from sticks and imagination. We’d wander out there mid-morning, mugs in hand, and not stir till the sun dipped low. Lazy lunches of cheese ploughman’s from the local farm shop (picked up on that muddy drive, funnily enough) eaten straight off the picnic table – perfection.

Evenings blurred into more of the same blissful inertia. A gentle stroll down the lane to peer at the cows, maybe, but mostly it was fire lit, feet up, and yarns about nothing much. One night, I caught myself staring into the flames, thinking how daft it was that we pack our lives so full back home. Here, doing very little felt like the point – recharging batteries I didn’t know were flat. No grand hikes up the Black Mountains or canoe jaunts on the Wye for us; Hay-on-Wye’s bookshops were tempting, just six miles off, but why rush? We’d amble there one afternoon for a mooch, noses in second-hand tomes and cake in cafes, then back to base for more garden lounging.

Selfishly, it was the slowing down that hit home hardest. In a world that never pauses, this barn gave us permission to just be. We left fatter in the soul, lighter in the step, already plotting a return. If you’re after proper holiday hygge, gather your lot and go – Herefordshire’s waiting with open arms.