I’ll never forget the drive to Crickhowell last month – a proper British road trip that started with high spirits and ended with me swearing at the satnav. We’d piled into the car from Cardiff, me behind the wheel, cups of tea sloshing in the holders, and the dog wedged in the boot with his head out the window. About halfway, just past Merthyr, the heavens opened and some cheeky pothole decided to ambush my front tyre. Flat as a pancake! Twenty minutes of soggy faffing later, with Jack (my other half) holding an umbrella that was about as useful as a chocolate teapot, we were back on the road. By the time we crested the hill into the Beacons, though, the clouds had buggered off, revealing those rolling green hills that make your heart lift. Anticipation bubbled up – this was going to be our little escape.

Pulling up to the cottage, my first impressions were spot on. It’s one of those cosy, traditional Welsh numbers tucked away in Crickhowell, with a welcoming vibe that screams “put your feet up”. The garden wrapped around it like a hug, wildflowers nodding in the breeze and a couple of weathered benches begging for a sit-down. We dumped the bags and cracked open a bottle of local cider right there on the patio, watching the sun dip behind the mountains. Bliss.

The whole point of this trip, you see, was to do bugger all – and boy, did we nail it. No grand plans, no ticking off lists. This picturesque area is famed for its relaxed pace and wonderful walks in all directions, but we barely laced up our boots. The Crickhowell Walking Festival might draw the crowds every March, and sure, it’s brilliant for cycling, mountain biking, horse riding, sailing, fishing, caving and more – but not for us. Nearby attractions like Brecon Beacons National Park, Craig-y-Nos Country Park (practically on the doorstep), the Brecon Mountain Railway, South Wales Borderers Museum and The National Showcaves of Wales are all tempting, as are events like the Hay Festival of Literature and Brecon Jazz Festival. You can potter to historic houses, gardens and castles too, with Tretower Court and Castle less than three miles away. But honestly? We couldn’t be arsed.

Lazy cottage days were the order of the week. Mornings meant shuffling out to the garden with a pot of tea and the papers, sprawled on those benches as buzzards wheeled overhead. I’d lose hours in a battered paperback – some frothy crime novel that had me chuckling at the daft detective – while Jack dozed off with the dog on his lap. Lunch was whatever was in the fridge: cheese on toast, maybe a bit of Welsh rarebit if we were feeling fancy. Afternoons blurred into siestas, birdwatching (or was that napping with eyes open?), and the odd gentle stroll just far enough to stretch the legs and nab a pint at the local. Evenings? Cosy up by the fire with takeaways from the village chippy, a film on the laptop, and that deep, satisfied tiredness you only get from proper slowing down.

Looking back, there was a quiet moment mid-week, sat in the garden as mist rolled off the hills, when I caught myself reflecting. Life’s always rushing – work emails, school runs, the lot. Here, time stretched out like warm fudge. I realised I’d forgotten how good it feels to just *be*, without the guilt. No photos for Instagram, no achievements to boast about. Just us, the cottage, and the Beacons breathing easy. If you’re after that rare gift of doing very little, this is the spot. We’re already plotting a return.