I’ll never forget the drive down to Devon – sat nav insisting we take some winding back road that turned out to be more pothole than tarmac. Halfway there, we had a proper comedy moment: a rogue sheep decided to photobomb our progress, standing bang in the middle of the lane like it owned the place. I’m honking gently (no point upsetting the locals), while my other half’s in stitches, filming it on her phone. Twenty minutes later, we’re free, and the anticipation builds – visions of cream teas and coastal paths dancing in my head. But honestly? This holiday was all about the opposite: doing sweet FA and loving every minute.

Pulling up to the cottage, I was chuffed to bits. Tucked away in this peaceful countryside spot, just two miles from Buckland Brewer’s cracking pub and that brilliant old-school butcher (we stocked up on pasties pronto), it felt like stepping into a proper rural hideaway. Five miles off, Bideford’s quirky independent shops and those narrow, higgledy-piggledy streets were a short jaunt away if we fancied a mooch, and the thought of a boat trip out to Lundy – puffins! Sika deer! – had us buzzing on arrival. This converted grain store is pure retreat vibes, a world away from the daily grind.

From that first evening, though, we barely stirred. The garden stole the show – a lush, private patch with bird song on loop and views over rolling fields that made you forget emails existed. I’d flop into a lounger with a pot of tea (builder’s strength, naturally), cracking open a dog-eared paperback I’d been meaning to read for months. No agenda, no alarms. Just the sun creeping across the sky, a gentle breeze rustling the hedges, and the occasional low of a cow in the distance. Bliss.

Days blurred into this glorious rhythm of laziness. Mornings? Putter about the kitchen, brewing coffee and scoffing toast slathered in local jam, then back to the garden with a book. Afternoons meant dozing under the parasol, waking only to top up my mug or sneak a biscuit. We did venture out once or twice – a lazy amble to Buckland Brewer for a pint at the pub, where the barman regaled us with tales of village life, or a potter around Bideford’s lanes, picking up fudge and peering in shop windows. But even those felt like treats amid the sloth. One evening, we watched the sunset from the garden, sipping wine, and I caught myself thinking: when did I last just *be* like this? Work’s non-stop hustle had me wired, always chasing the next thing. Here, time stretched out, and it was a gentle nudge – slow down, mate, life’s not a race.

By the end of the week, I’d devoured two novels, my shoulders had unclenched, and we’d achieved peak relaxation without lifting a finger. If you’re after a Devon getaway that’s less about ticking boxes and more about breathing easy, this is it. Proper restorative stuff. Can’t wait to go back and do even less.