I live in a town at the bottom of mainland Australia, near the bottom of the world, so on travelling anywhere nearer to the top, like England, the body clock suffers a terrible divergent tick. Jet lag is as inevitable as my outrageous post holiday Amex bill. But last year I found an antidote. It’s in the English countryside where mist floats like angels, willows curtsy to the river and ducks waddle faster than our peaceful strolls. Our hotel, a twenty-minute drive from Heathrow, sits on the banks of the middle-Thames’, Windsor. There’s tourism in the region but we ignore it all for two days, replacing the clouds of jet lag with luxurious napping, relaxed dining and meanders through lush hotel gardens.