I’d barely pulled off the M4 when the sat nav decided to send me down a lane that got narrower and narrower until the hedges were practically brushing both wing mirrors. By the time I spotted the turning for Oak, I was convinced we were about to end up in someone’s back garden. We didn’t, of course—just a slightly sheepish three-point turn and a sheep that looked personally offended—but it set the tone for the sort of relaxed, slightly haphazard weekend we’d been promising ourselves for months.

The cottage sat at the end of a short gravel track, half-hidden by a tangle of hawthorn and a couple of sturdy oaks that gave the place its name. First impressions were promising: a low, whitewashed front with a slate roof that looked as though it had settled into the hillside rather than been built on it. The front door was the colour of fresh cream and already slightly ajar, as if the cottage itself was inviting us in before we’d even found the key safe. Inside, the air smelled faintly of woodsmoke and yesterday’s toast, and the low ceilings made my husband instinctively duck, which amused the children no end.

We’d chosen Oak for exactly this sort of unhurried family break—no big plans, just the four of us and a few days to potter. The kitchen opened straight onto a small flagged patio where a kettle, two mismatched mugs and a jar of instant coffee had been left out by the last guests. We claimed them immediately. While the kettle grumbled, the kids disappeared into the garden to inspect a rope swing hanging from the biggest oak, and I stood in the doorway listening to the soft clink of their wellies on the stones. It felt like the weekend had already started without us needing to do anything at all.

The living room was small but perfectly arranged for loafing: a deep sofa that had clearly seen better days but was all the better for it, a wood burner with a basket of logs already stacked beside it, and a low table covered in board games that looked as though they’d been played to within an inch of their lives. We didn’t light the fire straight away—there was still enough late-afternoon sun to sit outside—but I made a mental note that come evening we’d be gathered round it with blankets and the slightly squashed packet of biscuits I’d remembered to pack at the last minute.

Upstairs, the bedrooms were simple and cosy. The children claimed the twin room with its sloping ceiling and tiny window that looked straight into the branches of the oak. My husband and I took the double, which had the sort of mattress that remembers every previous guest and doesn’t mind telling you about them. We unpacked in that leisurely way you only manage on the first afternoon of a holiday—socks in drawers, toothbrushes in mugs, the unspoken agreement that ironing could wait until we were home again.

By the time we’d made a quick shop run into Cowbridge for bread, milk and the sort of emergency chocolate that always seems essential on these trips, the light was starting to fade. We walked back along the lane, the children collecting interesting stones and me trying not to think about how many times I’d have to hoover the car later. Back at the cottage, we heated up soup on the Aga and ate it at the kitchen table while rain began to tap gently on the roof. It felt like the sort of evening that doesn’t need much more than warm bowls and the occasional argument about whose turn it was to choose the next board game.

Later, once the children were asleep, my husband and I sat on the patio with the last of the wine and listened to the owls. I found myself thinking how easy it is, on these short breaks, to forget that the point isn’t to tick things off a list but simply to be somewhere different together. The cottage didn’t offer anything flashy, just a quiet space to slow down, and that felt like exactly what we’d needed.