I finally made it to Periwinkle Lodge after a bit of a faff on the drive down from Exeter. I'd taken a wrong turn somewhere near Okehampton – nothing major, just me blindly trusting the satnav while munching on a pasty, only to end up on a single-track lane with hedges taller than my car. Classic me, innit? Twenty minutes of reversing etiquette with a polite farmer later, and I was back on track, trundling through the rolling Devon hills towards Roadford Lake. The sun was dipping low, casting that golden glow over the tors, and I could already feel the city tension melting away.

Pulling up to Periwinkle Lodge just as dusk settled was pure magic. It's one of those Roadford Lake Lodges tucked right on the water's edge, a cosy wooden haven with a thatched roof and flower baskets spilling over with lobelia. I parked on the gravel drive, grabbed my weekend bag (packed light, for once – books, wellies, and a bottle of scrumpy), and fumbled the keycode at the gate. Inside, blimey, it was like stepping into a hug. Low-beamed ceilings, a wood-burning stove already laid with kindling, and squishy sofas begging you to flop down. The kitchen was kitted out proper – Aga humming away, fresh milk in the fridge, and a welcome pack with local fudge that I demolished in two minutes flat.

First impressions? This place screamed 'do bugger all, and love it'. No grand plans, no itineraries – just the joy of switching off. I cracked open the French doors to the deck, and there it was: Roadford Lake stretching out, mirror-flat and fringed with reeds. A pair of swans glided by like they owned the place, and the air smelled of damp earth and wild mint. I plonked myself in one of the Adirondack chairs with a cuppa, watching the water lap gently. No rush, no noise – just the faint ripple of a fish jumping now and then. It hit me then, in that quiet moment: how often do we bolt through life at 90mph? Here, time stretched out lazy as a cat in the sun.

The garden was a dream for loafing about. A proper wildflower meadow sloping down to the lake, with a hammock strung between apple trees and a fire pit circled by log benches. I spent my first afternoon wandering its paths in bare feet, picking blackberries that were fat and bursting sweet. Sat on the swing seat with a dog-eared copy of The Sea, The Sea – Iris Murdoch's got that knack for making you ponder while doing sweet FA. Every so often, I'd glance up at the herons stalking the shallows or a buzzard wheeling overhead. Light humour in the form of me nearly toppling off the hammock mid-chapter, book flying into the grass. Laughed at myself, retrieved it, and carried on.

Leisurely local exploration? Barely left the lodge's orbit. A gentle amble along the lake path the next morning – maybe a mile loop through Broadwoodwidger's quiet lanes, past drystone walls and sheep-nibbled fields. Stopped at a honesty box for eggs (cracked 'em into a pan back at the lodge for brunch). No pubs or cream teas this trip; it was all about savouring the slowness. Back for lunch on the deck – cheese sarnies with chutney from the welcome pack, feet up, birdsong soundtrack. Evenings were stove crackling, a GandT in hand, staring at the stars popping out over the water. No TV, no scrolling – just me, the cosy glow inside, and that profound nothing-much.

By day three, I was hooked on this unhurried rhythm. Periwinkle Lodge isn't about ticking boxes; it's a nudge to breathe deep and let Devon work its spell. As I packed up, reluctantly, I felt recharged – lighter, somehow. If you're craving a proper break from the madness, book it. You won't want to leave.