I’ll never forget the drive down to Tenby – or rather, the near-disaster just outside Carmarthen. We’d set off from Bristol full of beans, me navigating on my phone while my partner drove our packed estate car. But then, disaster: a rogue sheep decided to play chicken right in the middle of the narrow country lane. I yelped, he swerved, and we ended up with heart rates through the roof, laughing hysterically as the woolly culprit trotted off like nothing happened. “Welcome to Wales,” we gasped, and from there, the anticipation built – rolling green hills giving way to glimpses of the sea, the promise of a proper unwind in Pembrokeshire.

Pulling into Saint Florence, that little village just a hop from Tenby, we were smitten straight away. It’s got this cosy, timeless feel – the sort of place where time slows right down. Our two-bed cottage was perfect: snug and inviting, with a lovely garden that backed onto open fields. We tumbled out of the car, bags half-unpacked, and just stood there breathing it all in. The sun was dipping low, casting a golden glow over everything, and I thought, yeah, this is exactly what we needed.

From that moment, the holiday became a masterclass in doing bugger all – and loving every second. No grand plans, no ticking off lists. We’d potter out to the garden each morning with mugs of tea, settling into the wooden benches under a big parasol. The birdsong was relentless, and you could hear the gentle trickle of the nearby River Ritec if you listened hard enough. I’d crack open a book – some dog-eared thriller I’d been saving – while he dozed off with the paper over his face. Bliss. One afternoon, I caught myself staring at a butterfly flitting about the lavender for a good ten minutes. Proper mindfulness without the yoga mat.

Lazy lunches were a highlight: fresh bread from the village shop, local cheese, and whatever was ripe from the garden – strawberries one day, a few tomatoes the next. We’d eat sprawled on blankets, chatting about nothing much, or not chatting at all. Evenings meant firing up the little barbecue for sausages and a cheeky bottle of wine, watching the sunset paint the sky pink over the fields. No rush to Tenby’s beaches or attractions – though we knew Manor Wildlife Park and Heatherton were just down the road if the mood struck – but honestly, why bother? The cottage garden was our own private paradise.

There was this one gentle moment of reflection on day three, sat there with my feet up, book forgotten. I realised I’d been running on fumes back home – work emails at midnight, endless to-dos. Here, in Saint Florence, I’d properly switched off. No guilt, just gratitude for the quiet. We did venture out once for a gentle stroll along the local trails, the air thick with wildflowers, but mostly it was about savouring the slowness. A holiday of very little, and it felt like everything. If you’re after recharging those batteries, find yourself a spot like this – you won’t regret it.