I’ll never forget the drive down to Wexford – we’d set off from Dublin full of beans, sandwiches packed and the sat-nav chirping away, but about halfway there, I took a wrong turn onto some narrow lane that looked promising on the map but turned out to be a dead end at a muddy field. Cue much faffing about with reversing the car while dodging a curious cow, and we arrived a bit later than planned, laughing at our daftness. Still, as we pulled up to this lovely three-bedroom traditional Irish cottage on the outskirts of Tomhaggard, just 2.1 miles from Kilmore, my heart lifted. Perched in a fabulous countryside spot on a family-run working farm, it looked every bit the cosy haven we’d been craving, with ponies ambling in the distance and the promise of beaches like Ballyhealy and Kilmore Quay just a short hop away.

Stepping inside, we were hit with that instant glow of rightness – the open-plan living space inviting us in like an old mate, plush leather sofas begging us to flop down in front of the woodburning stove. We got it crackling straight away, chucked on some telly (a bit of nonsense quiz show to start), and that was us sorted. After the journey’s minor drama, the first impressions were spot on: peaceful, unpretentious, perfect for switching off.

The whole stay was about savouring the joy of doing bugger all, and boy, did we lean into it. Mornings kicked off lazy – I’d potter out to the garden with a cuppa, watching the chickens scratch about and saying hello to the ponies over the fence. No rush, no plans, just me, a book (I finally cracked open that novel I’d been lugging around for months), and the gentle hum of farm life. Lunch was whatever we fancied rustling up from the local shops – nothing fancy, cheese on toast or a ploughman’s sort of affair – eaten outside if the sun played ball, which it mostly did, with that soft Irish light filtering through.

Afternoons melted into more of the same: sprawling on the sofa with the stove popping, flicking through channels or nodding off mid-chapter. One day, I wandered the grounds a bit, spotting butterflies in the wildflowers and feeling properly unplugged. It’s funny, isn’t it? We’re always chasing adventures, but there I was, mid-forties and realising that the best holiday might just be this – no itinerary, no Instagram poses, just slowing right down. The other half joined in, feet up, sharing the odd daft story from our lives back home. Evenings were stove-gazing heaven: a simple supper, maybe a glass of wine, and early nights with the windows cracked to let in the countryside hush.

By the time we packed up, I didn’t want to leave. That cottage taught me (gently nudging my over-scheduled self) that joy’s in the pauses – the reading in the garden, the lazy stares at nothing much. If you’re after a Wexford escape where doing very little feels like everything, this is your spot. We’re already plotting a return.