I finally made it to Packhorse Shepherd’s Hut near Belper in Derbyshire after a bit of a faff on the journey down. Picture this: I’d packed the car with a boot full of books, snacks, and a vague plan to do absolutely bugger all for three days. But ten minutes from the turn-off, I managed to spill half a thermos of tea all over the passenger seat while fiddling with the sat-nav. Cue me swearing at a soggy map book and arriving with a whiff of Earl Grey about me. Classic me – turning a simple drive into a minor disaster. Still, as I crunched up the gravel track to the hut, that mishap melted away like morning mist over the Derwent Valley.

Pulling up, I was gobsmacked by how perfectly tucked away it was. Nestled in a quiet corner of Amber Valley, just a stone’s throw from Belper’s gentle hills, the shepherd’s hut sat like it had grown there naturally – a cosy little wooden haven with a pitched roof and a chimney puffing lazy smoke. The owner, a cheery local chap, handed over the keys with a nod and a “Make yourself at home, love – no rush.” No rush. Those words were music to my frantic urban ears. I’d come here to switch off, to embrace the joy of doing precisely nowt, and from that first glimpse, it felt like the hut was built for it.

Stepping inside was like slipping into a warm hug. The space was compact but brilliant – a double bed piled high with quilts, a wee wood-burning stove already ticking away, and a kitchenette kitted out with everything you’d need for lazy brekkies. I dumped my bag, brewed a fresh cuppa (sans spill this time), and flopped onto the sofa with a dog-eared copy of a P.G. Wodehouse novel. Outside, the garden wrapped around like a secret meadow: wildflowers nodding in the breeze, a couple of weathered benches, and a fire pit begging for an evening of stars and stories. I spent that first afternoon right there, feet up, watching bees bumble about and clouds drift over the nearby woods. No agenda, no emails pinging – just the rustle of pages and the odd chirp of a robin. It was blissfully, ridiculously idle.

As the sun dipped low, painting the hills in that soft Derbyshire gold, I fancied a gentle potter. A five-minute wander took me along a leafy path to the edge of Strutt’s Park, where the air smelled of damp earth and possibility. I didn’t hike or conquer peaks – heavens no. Just ambled, spotting a cheeky squirrel nicking nuts and breathing in the quiet that city life forgot. Back at the hut, I lit the fire pit, cracked open a bottle of local ale from Belper’s microbrewery (grabbed on the way), and toasted marshmallows till they were gooey catastrophes. Laughing at my sticky fingers, I thought, “This is daft – I’m a grown adult making a mess with sweets.” But what a glorious mess.

That first evening, as I snuggled under the duvet listening to the hut creak softly in the wind, I had a proper moment of reflection. Life’s been a whirlwind lately – deadlines, decisions, the lot. Here, in this unpretentious shepherd’s hut, I realised how much I’d missed this: the sheer delight of slowing right down. No grand adventures, just the simple thrill of a garden nook, a good book, and the freedom to let time stretch out. It’s funny how doing so little can fill you up so much. By bedtime, I was already plotting tomorrow’s schedule: more of the same. And that, my friends, is the magic of Packhorse.