I’ll never forget the drive down to Pembrokeshire – a proper British road trip, complete with lashings of rain and my sat-nav deciding to throw a wobbly just as we hit the twisty lanes near Clynderwen. We’d been buzzing with anticipation, dreaming of sandy beaches and coastal walks, but ten minutes from our bungalow, I took a wrong turn onto a muddy farm track. Cue much reversing and a sheep giving us the evil eye as if we’d gatecrashed its lunch. Still, we laughed it off, and pulling up to the place, my heart lifted. Nestled in a lovely, quiet spot with nothing but birdsong and the odd distant moo, it was love at first sight – a cosy bungalow that screamed “relax here and forget the world”.

From that moment, any grand plans for adventures melted away. We’d picked this holiday for the joy of doing very little, and boy, did it deliver. Mornings started slow: a potter in the kitchen brewing tea, then spilling out into the garden with mugs in hand. It’s one of those perfect little outdoor spaces – not massive, but private enough to feel like your own secret Eden. We’d lounge on the chairs, watching butterflies flit about and clouds drift lazily overhead. No rush, no schedule. Just me, a good book (I finally cracked open that pile of paperbacks I’d been lugging around for years), and the gentle hum of the countryside.

Afternoons blurred into the same blissful rhythm. I’d stretch out on a sunbed if the Welsh weather played ball – which it did more often than not – flicking pages while the other half dozed nearby. We’d nibble on picnic-y lunches from the nearby Narberth market town, just a cheeky five-minute drive away. Popped in once for fresh bread, cheese from the deli, and a wander past the quirky shops, but honestly, we barely left the garden. It was hilarious really; I’d catch myself staring at a blade of grass for minutes, mesmerised by a ladybird’s stroll, thinking, “When did I last let my brain switch off like this?” A proper moment of self-reflection there – city life had turned me into a fidgety fool, always chasing the next thing. Here, slowing down felt like the real luxury.

Evenings were pure magic in that mellow way. Barbecue if we fancied (the garden’s set up for it), or just cheese and crackers with a bottle of something chilled, sat out till the stars winked on. The quiet was golden – no traffic, no telly blaring, just the rustle of leaves. Sure, we knew Folly Farm and those gorgeous Pembrokeshire beaches were practically on the doorstep, and the Preseli Hills tempted for a gentle amble, but why bother? The bungalow’s peace was the star attraction. Narberth’s pubs and little museum were close enough for a rainy-day jaunt, but we savoured the sloth instead.

By the end of the week, I felt human again – recharged by all that glorious nothing. If you’re after a holiday that’s less “go go go” and more “ahhhh”, this is it. Pembrokeshire’s magic isn’t just the coast; it’s spots like this, where doing very little feels like the best thing ever. Can’t wait to go back.