I finally made it to Hw42, this cracking little lodge tucked away in Bognor Regis, after a journey that started with the classic British holiday cock-up: forgetting my reading glasses in the rush out the door. There I was, bombing down the A27 from Brighton, squinting at the satnav like a pensioner trying to read the small print on a pill packet, convinced I'd end up in Portsmouth instead. But no, after a faff with a cheeky diversion through Felpham – thanks, Waze – I pulled up to the place just as the sun dipped low over the Arun, painting everything in that golden Sussex glow. First impressions? Bloody paradise for anyone whose idea of a holiday is doing precisely bugger all.

Stepping inside felt like sinking into a hug from an old mate. The lodge is one of those snug wooden numbers, all warm pine and soft lighting, with a wood burner already set (though I didn't light it – too lazy even for that). The open-plan living space screamed "put your feet up," with a squishy sofa facing French doors that open straight onto a private decked garden. I dumped my bag, cracked open a tin of ginger beer from the fridge (properly stocked, bless the hosts), and just... sat. No itinerary, no alarms, just the distant crash of waves from the beach a short stroll away and birdsong filtering through the trees. That's the joy of Hw42 – it's designed for loafing, not legwork.

Day one was pure indulgence in inertia. I pottered out to the garden first thing, mug of tea in hand, marvelling at how it's this lush, enclosed haven with a barbecue I eyed greedily but never fired up. Instead, I sprawled on the loungers with a dog-eared copy of my latest crime novel – the one I'd been meaning to crack open for months. The sun filtered through the leaves, and I must've nodded off for a solid hour, waking up with creases on my face and zero regrets. Lunch? A lazy rummage in the well-equipped kitchen for cheese on toast, eaten al fresco while watching butterflies flirt with the lavender. It's moments like that when you realise how knackered modern life leaves you – rushing about like a blue-arsed fly – and how flipping restorative it is to just stop.

Venturing out was minimal, mind – we're talking a gentle amble to the beach, all of five minutes down the lane. Bognor Regis seafront in that hazy afternoon light is understated magic: donkey rides plodding along the sand, ice cream vans tinkling away, and families building wonky sandcastles. I grabbed a 99 from a kiosk, wandered the prom, and flopped on a bench to people-watch. No grand hikes up the Downs or cultural crawls; just the simple thrill of salty air and slowing my pulse to match the tide. Back at the lodge by tea time, I lit a few fairy lights on the deck (they're there for exactly this sort of faffing), poured a GandT, and reflected on how I've spent too long lately chasing deadlines instead of sunsets. Here, time stretches like toffee – no pressure to "make the most" of it.

By evening, cocooned on the sofa with the doors flung wide, I let the coastal breeze whisper in while bingeing a rubbish telly boxset. The bedroom upstairs is a dream too – crisp linen, views over the garden, and that deep, satisfied sleep only utter relaxation brings. Two more days stretched ahead, promising more of the same: garden naps, beach dawdles, perhaps a mooch to the local shops for pasties and papers. Hw42 isn't about adventures; it's about reclaiming the art of buggering about blissfully. If you're knackered from the daily grind, book it – you'll arrive frazzled and leave floaty. Cheers to that.