I’ll never forget the drive up from Belfast to Bangor – it was meant to be a straightforward hour along the coast, but no, I managed to take a wrong turn onto some winding back lane near Holywood, convinced my sat-nav had gone rogue. Picture me, map app fritzing in the rain, swearing under my breath (quietly, mind) while the kids in the back giggled like it was the best comedy ever. By the time we rolled up to Hamilton Road, we were all a bit frazzled, but honestly, that little mishap just made the arrival sweeter. Parking up, I caught my first glimpse of the place – this handsome Edwardian house with its characterful red door and a bench out front, perfect for people-watching as the world ambled by, just a hop from Main Street. Stepping inside, the wooden flooring drew us straight to the living room, where that massive corner sofa begged us to flop down under the soft light, and the armchair by the woodburning stove practically whispered promises of cosiness.

From that moment, we decided: this holiday was all about doing sod all, and it was glorious. No grand plans, no ticking off tourist spots – just lazy days surrendering to the rhythm of the place. Mornings started slow, with me brewing tea in the kitchen before shuffling back to sink into the sofa with a book I’d been meaning to read for months. The woodburner crackled away once we got it going (after a comical faff with the kindling – I’m no Bear Grylls), casting this gentle warmth that made you forget the world outside. We’d crack open windows to the sea breeze drifting in from the nearby coast, listening to gulls squawking over the lough.

The garden out back became our secret haven. It’s nothing fancy, just a tidy patch with a bit of grass, some pots bursting with late-summer flowers, and a couple of chairs tucked under a tree. I’d spend hours there, feet up, lost in a novel while the others dozed or fiddled with a puzzle on the dining table inside. One afternoon, I caught myself staring at a butterfly flitting about, mesmerised – when did I last have time for that? It hit me then, this quiet self-reflection amid the nothing-much: life back home is a whirlwind of deadlines and dash, but here, slowing down felt like the real luxury. No pressure to hike Ward Park or even wander to the marina five minutes away; we did pop down once for fish and chips, eaten straight from the paper on that front bench, but mostly, it was about savouring the stillness.

Evenings blurred into the best kind of nothing – lighting the stove again, sharing stories over simple suppers at the wooden table, maybe a glass of wine as the light faded. The four-storey house wrapped around us like a hug, plenty of space for everyone to spread out without getting under each other’s feet. By the end of the week, I felt properly unwound, like I’d rediscovered the joy in just being. If you’re after a base to switch off near the Northern Ireland coast, this is it – pure, unadulterated laziness, and I’d go back in a heartbeat.