I’ll never forget the drive down to Herefordshire last month – me behind the wheel, sat-nav chirping away, and my partner dozing in the passenger seat. We’d left the M4 in a bit of a flap after hitting unexpected roadworks near Swindon, which turned what should’ve been a straightforward three hours into a four-hour crawl. I ended up taking a wrong turn onto some narrow country lane, swearing under my breath (well, quietly, to avoid waking her), and we arrived just as the sun dipped low over the hills, both a tad frazzled but buzzing with that pre-holiday anticipation. What would this little spot be like? Tucked away yet close to Hay-on-Wye’s bookshops – perfect for us lot who fancy a mooch without the hassle.

Pulling up, my first impressions were spot on. This charming 16th-century cottage, fully done up but keeping that cosy period feel, sat in a secluded nook, just a short stroll from the town’s buzz. No traffic hum, just birdsong and the faint whiff of woodsmoke. We unloaded the car in minutes, hearts lifting at the sight of the private patio peeking out back. Inside, it was all we’d hoped: a plush en-suite with a power shower and freestanding bath begging for a long soak, a comfy double bedroom with wardrobe and a wee chaise longue for flopping on with a book, and a slick kitchen that made rustling up brekkie a doddle. The living space? Pure bliss – dedicated dining spot for two, squidgy seating round a cracking Clearview fire, ready for evenings in.

But honestly, the joy of the whole trip was doing sod all. After that faff on the road, we craved nothing more than slowing right down. Mornings kicked off with coffee on the patio, steam rising as we gazed at the rolling countryside from the shared lawn – no rush, no plans scribbled in a notebook. I’d potter out there in my slippers, mug in hand, listening to the Wye Valley hum while she flicked through a dog-eared novel. Days melted into lazy loops: a gentle wander into Hay for a pasty from the bakery (none of that gourmet malarkey, just proper fuel), then back for lounging. Afternoons were for reading in the garden – me on a blanket with a Philip Pullman, her lost in some rom-com paperback – interrupted only by the odd blackberry-picking session from the hedges nearby. We’d cook simple suppers together, nothing fancy, just pasta or a roast chicken, eaten at that little table with the fire crackling.

One evening, as the sky turned pink, I caught myself staring into the flames, thinking how daft it is that we pack our lives with rushing about. Here, in this peaceful retreat, time stretched out – no emails pinging, no deadlines nipping at our heels. We chatted about nothing much, laughed at how I’d nearly driven us into a ditch on arrival, and just... breathed. It was idyllic for a couple like us, rediscovering that art of pottering. By the time we packed up, reluctantly, I was already plotting a return. If you’re after a proper unwind in Herefordshire, this is the ticket – pure, unhurried magic.