I’ll never forget the drive down to Saundersfoot – we’d packed the car to the gills with snacks, books and enough beach towels to dry out the Irish Sea, only for the sat-nav to chuck a wobbly just past Carmarthen. It rerouted us down some winding back lane that felt like it hadn’t seen tarmac since the war, and there I was, white-knuckling the wheel while the kids in the back chanted “Are we there yet?” like a stuck record. A classic family road trip mishap, but honestly, it just ramped up the excitement. By the time we crested that final hill and spotted the sea glinting in the distance, I was buzzing – Saundersfoot looked like the perfect spot to flop and forget the world.

Pulling up to the house, my first impressions were spot on. It’s a proper welcoming family place, cosy and unpretentious, just a stone’s throw from South Beach and the Coastal Path, with the golf course practically in the back garden. No frills, just that easy seaside charm that makes you exhale and think, right, this is it. We dumped the bags and cracked open a pack of biscuit tins – arrival sorted.

What sold it for me, though, was how dead easy it was to do bugger all. And I mean properly nothing. Our days melted into this blissful rhythm of lounging in the garden, feet up on mismatched chairs, watching the sun dappling through the hedges. I’d brew a pot of tea strong enough to stand a spoon in, grab my dog-eared paperback – some lightweight thriller I’d been meaning to crack for months – and sink into a chair that practically hugged you. The kids? They’d mooch about at first, then join in, sprawled on blankets with their own books or just staring at the clouds, inventing daft stories about shapes. No schedules, no screens pinging – just the gentle hum of the sea in the background and the odd seagull having a right old chinwag overhead.

We’d wander down to South Beach now and then, but only for a lazy paddle or to skim stones, nothing strenuous. Back home, lunch was whatever was in the fridge – cheese toasties, maybe some local crab from the village shop if we fancied poshing it up. Afternoons blurred into garden siestas, with me nodding off under a newspaper hat, only to wake with that fuzzy, contented grin. Evenings? A gentle stroll along the Coastal Path at dusk, breathing in that salty air, then back for a simple supper and more reading by the lamp. Pubs and cafes were tempting just up the road in Tenby – we popped into one cheerful spot for a pint of something local and fish and chips that tasted of the sea – but mostly, we stayed put, savouring the slowness.

Looking back, it was a gentle nudge from the universe. I’m usually rushing about like a blue-arsed fly, ticking boxes and chasing the next thing. But there, in that Saundersfoot haven, I realised doing very little is the real luxury. No grand adventures, just recharging the soul with sea breezes, good books and family giggles. We left feeling lighter, already plotting a return. If you’re after proper holiday bliss, this is your spot – go on, treat yourself to a bit of nothing.