I’ll never forget the drive down to Newport – that twisty A487 hugging the Pembrokeshire coast, with the sea sparkling on one side and rolling hills on the other. I’d packed the car the night before, full of crisps, books, and enough tea bags to last a siege, buzzing with that holiday anticipation of salty air and proper downtime. But about 20 miles out, disaster struck: a rogue seagull decided my windscreen was its personal canvas. Splattered and swearing under my breath (well, mildly tutting), I pulled into a layby for a wipe-down, laughing at how even birds know how to chuck a spanner in the works. Still, by the time I trundled into town, the sun was out, and Newport’s easy charm hit me like a warm breeze – beach just a stroll away, little shops humming, the whole place screaming “relax”.

Pulling up to this characterful three-bedroom apartment above the Post Office, right in the heart of it all, I was chuffed. Off-road parking? Tick. Smack bang in the middle of the action, with the beach and coastline practically winking at me from down the road? Double tick. Stepping inside to the first and second floors, it felt like slipping into someone’s cosy home-away-from-home – three bedrooms sorted, a well-equipped kitchen begging for lazy brekkies, and a dining room perfect for lingering over meals while plotting (or not plotting) the day.

But honestly, the joy of the whole trip was doing bugger all. After that drive, I was ready to switch off completely. First morning, I pottered down to the beach – just a five-minute wander – grabbed a coffee from one of the local spots, and parked meself on the sand with a dog-eared paperback. The waves crashed lazily, dogs bounded about, and I watched families build epic sandcastles, feeling that rare fizz of contentment. Back at the flat, the garden out the back became my throne. It’s nothing fancy, just a sweet little patch with a couple of chairs and some pots overflowing with flowers, but blimey, it was heaven. I’d flop there with a brew, feet up, letting the sun do its thing while I flicked through a magazine or nodded off under a towel. No itinerary, no rush – just the hum of town life below and gulls overhead.

Afternoons blurred into siestas and snacks rustled up in the kitchen: cheese on toast one day, a massive salad the next, eaten at the dining table with the window open to catch the sea breeze. One evening, I wandered to the beach again at golden hour, toes in the water, picking up shells like a kid. No hikes up distant hills, no packed schedules – just slowing right down, breathing in the salt, letting worries drift off with the tide. There was this gentle moment, sat in the garden as the sun dipped, when I caught myself thinking, “I’m knackered from all this nothing, and it’s brilliant.” In our mad world, isn’t that the point of a holiday? Newport nailed it for me – pure, unadulterated loafing, and I’d go back tomorrow.