I set off from Cardiff with a bag that felt suspiciously light, and within half an hour managed to take the wrong turning at the roundabout, adding an extra ten minutes to the drive. By the time I pulled up the narrow lane to Shepherd’s Hut, the sun was already low and the kettle was calling my name.

The hut itself sat quietly behind a low hedge, its wooden sides glowing warm in the late light. I stepped inside, dropped my bag on the bed, and realised I’d forgotten the book I’d meant to finish. No matter; there was a small stack of dog-eared paperbacks on the shelf, and the armchair by the wood-burner looked far more inviting than any plan.

That first evening I did nothing more ambitious than boil water for tea and watch the light fade across the garden. A robin hopped along the fence, and I found myself counting the seconds between its hops, as though time itself had slowed to match. Dinner was a supermarket pie heated in the little oven, eaten on the step with a glass of red and the sound of sheep somewhere beyond the hedge.

The next morning I woke to birdsong and the faint rattle of rain on the roof. Instead of rushing out, I stayed under the duvet until the kettle clicked again. From the bed I could see straight into the garden, where drops clung to the lavender like tiny beads. Later, wrapped in a blanket, I wandered the few square metres of lawn, pausing to inspect a snail making its slow progress along the path. It felt like an achievement simply to notice it.

By midday the rain had cleared, so I wandered down the lane to the village shop for milk and a paper. The walk took less than ten minutes, yet it felt like a proper outing. Back at the hut I read a chapter, dozed, then read the same paragraph again, which seemed perfectly acceptable. In the afternoon I dragged the wicker chair outside and let the weak sun warm my face while I listened to the distant hum of traffic on the main road. It was the sort of sound that reminded you other people existed, without requiring you to join them.

On the final morning I made a proper breakfast, frying an egg in the tiny pan and eating it with toast at the little table by the window. Afterwards I sat in the garden again, this time with no book at all, just watching a blackbird tug at a worm. I thought about how rarely I allow myself whole days with nothing scheduled, and how odd it felt to enjoy the absence of plans so completely.

By the time I packed the car, the lane already looked familiar. I left the key under the flowerpot as instructed, and drove away with the windows down, the scent of damp grass still on my jacket.