I’ll never forget the drive down to that gorgeous spot near Tenby – we’d packed the car to the gills with crisps, books, and enough tea bags to last a siege, only for the sat-nav to chuck a wobbly just past Carmarthen. It rerouted us down some narrow lane that felt like it hadn’t seen daylight since the war, and there I was, white-knuckling the wheel while the kids in the back chanted “Are we there yet?” like a dodgy mantra. A classic family road trip mishap, but honestly, it just ramped up the anticipation. By the time we crested that final hill, with the Pembrokeshire countryside rolling out like a green welcome mat, I was buzzing to just... arrive.

Pulling up to this enchanting three-storey farmhouse on a quiet rural farm was pure magic – first impressions? Spot on. Tucked away in Redberth, it screamed “slow down and breathe,” with the sea not far off and nothing but birdsong for company. We’d booked it for a mates-and-family get-together, and from the off, it felt like the perfect antidote to our manic lives back home. No grand plans, mind – this holiday was all about doing sod all, and loving every lazy minute.

The first morning, I cracked open a deckchair in the garden, mug of builder’s tea in hand, and just... sat. The sun filtered through the hedges, warming my toes, while the others sprawled out with paperbacks and the odd nap. Who needs an alarm when you’ve got cows lowing in the distance? We’d wander down to the nearby beaches – Castle Beach with its charming island views or Tenby’s golden sands, both a quick five-mile hop – but only for a gentle plod along the water’s edge, picnic in tow. No rushing, no schedules. One afternoon, we ambled over to Saundersfoot, five miles the other way, where the harbour bobbed with boats and the beach water looked swim-ready for the brave (not me, I’m a paddler at heart). We grabbed fish and chips from one of the eateries and ate them on the sand, waves lapping like they were in no hurry either.

Even better were the days we didn’t budge. Garden lounging turned into an art form – reading that thriller I’d been promising myself for months, interspersed with dozy chats about nothing much. Wisemans Bridge, another five-mile jaunt, tempted us once for its rocky outcrops and that woodland walk along the old colliery railway, tunnels and all. It was lovely, a soft meander through dappled trees, but we were back by teatime, collapsing into the farmhouse for more of the same: slow, simple bliss.

Looking back, that gentle self-reflection hit me mid-week, feet up with a GandT. Life’s a whirlwind of deadlines and to-do lists – this place reminded me there’s joy in the pause. No Instagram frenzy, just us lot switching off, reconnecting over lazy suppers and star-gazing from the garden. If you’re after a tranquil Welsh escape where doing very little feels like the height of luxury, this is your spot. We left fatter of belly, fuller of heart, already plotting a return. Pure holiday heaven.