I’d barely made it out of Ashbourne when the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly, directing me down a single-track lane that looked more like a sheep’s personal runway than a road to No Deer. There I was, white-knuckling the wheel of my little hatchback, dodging brambles and wondering if I’d end up in someone’s farmyard compost heap. A quick U-turn (and a mild swear under my breath) sorted it, and soon enough I was trundling up the proper drive to this cracking little lodge tucked away in the Derbyshire Dales, just a stone’s throw from Ashbourne. It was day one of my three-day jaunt, and honestly, after that faff, arriving felt like sinking into the plushest armchair imaginable.

Pulling up, the first thing that hit me was the quiet. Proper, enveloping quiet—no rumble of traffic, no neighbourly chit-chat bleeding through walls, just the faint rustle of leaves and the odd bird doing its thing. No Deer is one of those shepherd’s huts done up proper: compact, cosy, with a wood-burner that promised evenings of toasty bliss, even if it was a balmy May afternoon. I dumped my bag, kicked off my trainers, and flopped onto the sofa with a cuppa from the well-stocked kitchenette. The views from the windows? Magic. Rolling fields stretching out, dotted with drystone walls and the odd grazing sheep, all framed by the gentle peaks of the Dales. It screamed “slow the hell down, mate,” and boy, did I listen.

First impressions were all about that sheer luxury of bugger all. No itinerary, no alarms—just me, a dog-eared paperback (some cracking detective yarn I’d been meaning to crack open for months), and the garden calling my name. It’s a proper suntrap out there, wildflowers nodding in the breeze, a couple of loungers begging for a lie-down. I spent the afternoon parked on one, book in one hand, pint of local ale in the other—picked up a cheeky four-pack from the offy in Ashbourne on the way. The sun dipped lazy-like, turning the sky all pink and gold, and I swear I could feel the city tension melting off me like butter on hot toast. Light humour in the form of me attempting to “forage” berries from the garden hedge, only to realise they were probably deadly nightshade. Note to self: stick to crisps.

Wandering out for a mooch later that first day felt effortless, no marathon hikes here. Just a gentle potter along the nearby lanes, past babbling brooks and those classic Derbyshire cottages with their wonky roofs. Ashbourne’s high street is only a short hop away—nabbed a pasty from a bakery that smelled like heaven, all flaky pastry and proper filling. Sat on a bench by the River Dove, feet up, watching the world amble by. Ducks quacking lazily, kids larking about without a care. It was the perfect nudge to explore without exhausting myself, reminding me why I’d come: to embrace the joy of doing sod all, properly.

As evening rolled in, I fired up the wood-burner (even though I didn’t need to—couldn’t resist the crackle), cooked a simple fry-up on the hob, and settled in with the telly flickering low. Staring into the flames, I had one of those gentle moments of self-reflection: life back home’s a right whirlwind—deadlines, emails, the lot. Here at No Deer, time stretched out like elastic. No rush, no plans, just the simple bliss of breathing deep and letting go. First impressions? This place was a tonic for the soul, a reminder that sometimes the best holiday is the one where you barely leave the garden. Can’t wait to see what days two and three bring, but right now, I’m content as Larry.