I’ll never forget the drive down to our little Shropshire hideaway – we’d packed the car with enough cheese, crackers and wine to see us through a siege, only for the satnav to chuck us into a sudden downpour just as we hit the Welsh border. Sheets of rain hammered the windscreen, and I ended up doing a three-point turn in a puddle the size of a small mere, laughing like a drain while my other half clutched the map like it was a life raft. “Typical us,” I muttered, but honestly, it just added to the adventure.

By the time we trundled down that quiet country lane, only a mile from the England-Wales divide, the clouds had buggered off, leaving behind this golden light that made everything look like a postcard. First impressions? Bloody brilliant. The cottage was this cosy, traditional number – low doorways that had me stooping like a guilty schoolboy, a kitchen that begged for lazy breakfasts, and a garden that felt like our own private kingdom, all tucked away in peaceful rural bliss. We arrived buzzing with that holiday anticipation, you know? The sort where you imagine endless cups of tea and zero alarm clocks.

We wasted no time settling into cottage life, which for us meant a spot of gentle chaos right from the off. I tried playing the wood-burner maestro, only to fill the lounge with smoke and send us coughing out into the fresh air, giggling at my amateur antics. “Next time, YouTube it first,” she teased. But that’s the joy of it – no rush, just us pottering about, rediscovering the simple pleasures like brewing proper tea in mismatched mugs and listening to the birds do their dawn chorus.

A short hop to Ellesmere, just five miles away – Shropshire’s own Lake District, they call it – and we were mesmerised by those shimmering meres. We wandered the paths, skimmed stones, and picnicked by the water, feeling miles away from the world. Pure bliss for a pair of weary city escapees. One afternoon, we ventured to the beautiful town of Llangollen, only 13 miles off, nestled against the Clwydian Range. We hired a canal boat along the Pontcysyllte Aqueduct – heart-in-mouth stuff gliding over that valley – and later puffed up to the ruins of Castell Dinas Bran for views that knocked the wind out of us. History without the crowds, just us holding hands and pretending we were explorers.

National Trust gems like Chirk Castle and Erddig were practically on the doorstep, both under 11 miles, so we popped over for a dose of stately home dreaming – all those gardens and tales of yesteryear. Oswestry, nine miles away, sorted our pub lunches with cracking ales and hearty pies from indie spots. And Alderford Lake, 15 miles out, was the summer highlight: splashing about on paddleboards, fish and chips in hand, laughing as we both toppled in like Keystone Cops.

Looking back, that week was a gentle nudge to slow down. Amid the cottage kerfuffles – the wonky door that pinched my thumb, the rogue sheep eyeing our veg patch – we found this quiet magic in doing bugger all but being together. Shropshire worked its charm on us, reminding a couple of soft southerners that rural peace and a bit of playful mayhem is the perfect tonic. We’re already plotting a return.