I’ll never forget the drive down to Wexford – we’d packed the car to the gills with wellies, books and the dog’s favourite squeaky toy, only for the sat-nav to chuck a wobbly just past Enniscorthy. It insisted we take a “scenic route” through what felt like every narrow lane in County Wexford, complete with hedges brushing the wing mirrors and a sheep giving us the evil eye. Half an hour late and mildly frazzled, we finally trundled into Ballintubbrid near Kilmuckridge, hearts lifting at the first glimpse of the coast winking in the distance. As we pulled up to this spacious holiday home – all welcoming vibes with five cosy bedrooms, an enclosed garden and off-road parking – I let out a proper sigh of relief. It was even better than the photos: right by the beach, pet-friendly for our daft Labrador, and screaming “kick back and forget the world”.

From that moment, the plan was simple: do bugger all, and love every second. After the faff of the journey, stepping over the threshold felt like sinking into a hug. We dumped the bags, cracked open a cuppa, and flopped in front of the telly as the woodburning stove got going with that gentle, hypnotic crackle. No rushing about – just pure, unadulterated loafing. The next few days blurred into a glorious haze of lazy cottage life. Mornings started late, with me shuffling out to the enclosed garden in my PJs, mug in hand, watching the dog chase imaginary foes across the grass while the sea breeze whispered promises of nearby beaches we might – or might not – visit.

We did wander down to the shore once or twice, just a short stroll away, for a potter along the sand at Blackwater or Morriscastle, toes in the cool Irish Sea and not a care beyond spotting the odd seal. But mostly? It was garden central. I’d claim a sun lounger (or deckchair, weather permitting), crack open a dog-eared paperback – something light and escapist – and let hours slip by. The other half would doze nearby, occasionally stirring to chuck a ball for the dog or rustle up a picnic of local cheeses and soda bread from the shops in Kilmuckridge, not even three miles off. Evenings were stove-gazing rituals: telly on low, a simple supper, and that rarest of luxuries – silence, broken only by waves in the distance or the dog’s contented snores.

There was this one moment, mid-afternoon on day three, sprawled in the garden with a book I’d barely read two pages of, that hit me. Life back home is non-stop – emails, deadlines, the works. Here, time stretched like toffee. I caught myself grinning at nothing, thinking, “Blimey, I’ve forgotten how to just *be*.” A gentle nudge from the universe, courtesy of Wexford’s quiet magic. No grand adventures needed; the joy was in the slowing down, the nothing-much-at-all that somehow filled us right up.

We left reluctantly, promising a return. If you’re after a spot to recharge with family, mates or the four-legged crew, this corner of Wexford delivers the ultimate chill-out. Pure bliss.