I’ll never forget the drive down to St Davids – a proper Welsh adventure that started with me taking a wrong turn somewhere near Fishguard, thanks to my rubbish sense of direction and a sat-nav that decided to throw a wobbly. We ended up on a narrow lane that felt more like a sheep’s personal runway, dodging a flock that was clearly in no rush to move. Half an hour later than planned, hearts racing a bit from the detour, we finally trundled up the track to this cracking dog-friendly holiday cottage on a working family farm in Pembrokeshire. As we pulled in, the anticipation melted away – there it was, all cosy and inviting, nestled right on the farm with views that promised proper escapism. First impressions? Spot on. It felt like the kind of place you’ve been dreaming of without even knowing it.

Our spaniel, Monty, went bonkers with excitement, tail wagging like a windscreen wiper on full pelt, and we weren’t far behind. The cottage was perfect for us – compact, comfy, with everything you need without any faff. But honestly, the real joy was in doing sod all. After that faffy journey, slowing down was the name of the game. We’d flop in the garden first thing, mugs of tea in hand, watching the farmer’s lambs gambolling about like they owned the place. Monty would chase shadows or nap in a sunbeam, while I’d crack open a book I’d been meaning to read for months. No schedules, no screens pinging – just the hum of bees and the odd tractor rumble in the distance.

Lazy days blurred into one another. Mornings meant lounging with the papers, maybe a slice of toast slathered in local marmalade from the nearby farm shop. Afternoons? More reading in the garden, feet up on a rickety chair, letting the sea breeze from the cliffs waft over. It’s only a half-mile stroll across the farm fields to the Pembrokeshire Coastal Path, those rugged cliffs dropping dramatically to the sea, but we barely made it that far most days. Instead, we’d potter to Whitesands Beach, just a short hop away – that Blue Flag stunner with its sweeping sands. We’d let Monty splash in the shallows while we sprawled on a rug, sandwiches in tow, gazing at the waves crashing in. No epic hikes or ticking off sights; just the simple thrill of waves, sand between toes, and the odd ice cream from the beach kiosk.

One evening, as the sun dipped low painting the sky all pink and gold, I had a proper moment of self-reflection sat there in the garden. Life back home’s a whirlwind – deadlines, emails, the lot – but here, on this quiet farm, I realised how knackered I’d been without clocking it. Doing nothing felt revolutionary, like giving my brain a holiday too. We did wander into St Davids once for a pub lunch at the grotty old Farmers Arms, fish and chips that hit the spot, and peeked at the cathedral’s ancient spire peeking over the rooftops. But mostly? Blissful inertia. Monty snored contentedly, we read till our eyes drooped, and the world slowed to farm pace.

Packing up to leave, I felt that familiar tug – why rush back? If you’re after a spot to switch off proper, this corner of the St Davids peninsula is gold dust. Here’s to more lazy cottage days ahead.