I’ll never forget the drive down to Wexford – we’d piled into the car in Dublin full of that giddy holiday buzz, sandwiches packed and podcasts queued up, only for the sat-nav to chuck us into a sudden detour through some narrow boreens that had me gripping the wheel like it was a rollercoaster. A cow decided to block the road at one point, staring us down as if we were the intruders, and we ended up laughing so hard we nearly missed the turning for Ballysheen. But oh, what a payoff when we finally pulled up.

There it was, this charming detached thatched cottage, just 5.5 miles from Rosslare Harbour, looking every bit the cosy postcard from the Sunny South East. Light and airy inside, with flexible sleeping for our crew – five bedrooms, including a double and two singles downstairs, perfect for the kids to crash without trekking upstairs. Two sitting rooms too, one for the little ones to sprawl with their toys while we grown-ups sank into the other with a cuppa and a natter about nothing much. First impressions? Pure magic. I could already feel the shoulders dropping.

We’d planned a proper Wexford whirl – beaches at Curracloe, maybe a wander to Lady’s Island – but honestly, who was I kidding? This holiday turned into a glorious ode to doing sod all, and I’m here for it. Mornings kicked off lazy in the garden, that lush patch of green begging for deckchairs and dawdling. I’d brew tea strong enough to stand the spoon in, then flop with a dog-eared novel – some trashy thriller that had me hooked by page three. The sun filtered through just right, birds cheeping away, and the sea breeze whispering from Rosslare direction without us even needing to budge.

Afternoons blurred into the same sweet rhythm. Kids vanished into their sitting room with board games and giggles, while we rotated between the two lounges, electric fires humming softly even on cooler days. I’d crack open a book of Irish poetry – Seamus Heaney, naturally – and lose hours staring at clouds drifting over the hedges. One day, I caught myself just listening: the faint hum of distant waves, a tractor puttering by, nothing else. No emails pinging, no rush. It was blissfully boring, the kind that recharges your soul.

There was this gentle moment of self-reflection one evening, pint of Guinness in hand (fetched from the local a quick stroll away), watching the sunset paint the garden gold. I realised I’d spent years chasing productivity like it was the holy grail, but here in this Wexford haven, slowing right down felt like the real win. No grand adventures needed – just the joy of a thatched roof over our heads, good company, and the luxury of time stretching out lazy as a cat in the sun.

We left fatter in the belly and lighter in the mind, already plotting a return. If you fancy switching off proper, this corner of County Wexford’s your spot. Pure, unadulterated loafing heaven.