I finally made it to Penally after a bit of a faff on the drive down from Carmarthen – nothing major, just me taking a wrong turn onto a narrow lane that dead-ended at some farmer's gate, with a cheeky sheep staring me down like I'd gatecrashed its picnic. Typical me, overthinking the satnav and turning a 45-minute jaunt into an hour of rural detour. But honestly, who cares? We were here for three days of proper doing sod all, and that little mishap just made the arrival feel even more like a holiday win.

Pulling up to the 3 Bed Lodge in Penally, I was chuffed to bits. Tucked away in a quiet spot just a stone's throw from the village, it's one of those proper Pembrokeshire gems – a cosy wooden lodge with that welcoming vibe that screams "kick off your shoes and flop." The owners had left the key in the door (classic trust in these parts), and stepping inside, it was all low beams, squishy sofas, and a wood burner begging to be lit, even if it was a balmy June evening. The kitchen was kitted out nicely – enough gadgets to rustle up a fry-up without faffing about, and a big farmhouse table perfect for lazy brekkies with endless cups of tea.

First impressions? Blissful. We dumped the bags and beelined for the garden – oh, that garden! Enclosed and private, with a decent lawn, a couple of loungers, and flowerbeds bursting with Welsh poppies and lavender. I plonked myself down with a book (some daft crime thriller I'd been saving) and a cold cider from the local offy in Tenby, just five minutes up the road. The sun filtered through the hedges, birds were chirping away, and the faint whoosh of the sea from nearby Penally Beach drifted over. No agenda, no rush – just me, the missus, and our mate, sinking into that rare joy of bugger all. I caught myself grinning like an idiot at how daft it felt to be so content doing precisely nowt.

That first afternoon set the tone. We wandered out for a gentle mooch around Penally itself – it's a tiny village, dead charming, with St Deiniol's Church peeking over the hill and a smattering of stone cottages that look like they've been there since the druids. Picked up fresh pasties from the village shop (proper job, flaky pastry and all), and ambled back slow as you like, detouring through a wildflower meadow where the bees were having a right old time. Back at the lodge, we cracked open the pasties on the patio, feet up, watching clouds scoot over the Preseli Hills in the distance. Light humour ensued when our mate tried "helping" with the barbecue – ended up charring sausages blacker than a miner's lunch, but we laughed it off with more cider. Proper mates' holiday stuff.

Evening rolled in lazy-like. I lit that wood burner (more for the crackle than the heat), and we sprawled on the sofas with Netflix droning some rubbish sitcom. The lodge felt like a hug – three snug bedrooms upstairs, all crisp linen and sea views from the windows, but we weren't fussed about sleeping yet. Sat there reflecting gently on how life's rush back home makes you forget this simple joy: switching off, letting time stretch out like warm toffee. No emails, no deadlines, just the tick of a clock that's not bossing you around.

By bedtime, with stars popping out over the garden, I knew this was spot on. Three days of this – reading till my eyes blurred, gentle village potters, garden lounging till tea – was exactly what the doctor ordered. Penally's lodge had us hooked from minute one, proving you don't need grand adventures when slowing right down feels this good.