I’ll never forget the drive up to our holiday bungalow in North Wales – we’d packed the car to the roof with snacks, books, and enough board games to last a nuclear winter, only for the sat-nav to chuck a wobbly just outside Aberystwyth. It insisted we turn down a narrow lane that dead-ended at a sheep-dotted field, leaving us reversing into a hedge with the kids in hysterics. “Mum, we’re sleeping rough tonight!” my youngest quipped. Typical us, but honestly, it just ramped up the anticipation. By the time we rolled into Llandre, that edge-of-the-village spot on the Ceredigion coast, I was buzzing to see what awaited.

First impressions? Spot on. This spacious detached bungalow is proper homely – think welcoming vibes with a big garden that rolls out like a green carpet, perfect for doing precisely nowt. We tumbled out, bags everywhere, and I swear the sea air hit us like a gentle hug. Llandre’s this quaint little Welsh village, sloped cemetery and all, with that ancient yew tree standing guard like it’s been there since the Romans fancied a day trip. Three miles down the road, Borth Beach was calling, but we resisted. This trip was about slowing right down, not dashing about.

And slow we did. Mornings kicked off lazy: brekkie on the patio, tea brewing while the mist lifted off the hills. The garden became our kingdom – I’d flop into a lounger with a dog-eared novel (that thriller I’d been promising myself for months), while the kids mooched about, building pebble forts or just staring at the clouds. No schedules, no screens pinging. One afternoon, I caught my husband nodding off mid-sentence, book on his lap, and it cracked me up. “Living the dream, eh?” I teased. He just grinned. We’d wander the garden paths, picking at blackberries (slightly sharp ones, mind), or play the world’s daftest game of boules with wonky plastic balls from the shed.

Venturing out? Barely. A gentle stroll to Borth’s golden sands, three miles away, for a paddle in the gently shelving waves – kids skimmed stones, I skimmed pebbles off my to-do list. Back home, it was reading marathons in the sun-trap lounge, or a cheeky nap. Four miles south, Aberystwyth tempted with its promenade and cliff railway, but we saved it for a rainy half-day (classic Wales). Ynyslas Sand Dunes, five miles up, were a quick nature hit – dunes to roll down, visitor centre for a flapjack – but even that felt like luxury lazing.

Reflecting on it now, sat here back home with the post-holiday blues, I realise this was the holiday I needed. Not the manic itineraries of yore, but proper unhurried bliss. Amid the joy of doing very little – garden lounging, page-turning, breath-catching – I felt myself unwind like an old spring. Who knew North Wales had this magic for recharging the soul? We’re already plotting a return.