I’ll never forget the drive down to Devon – rain lashing the windscreen like it had a personal grudge, and then, just past Barnstaple, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us down a narrow lane that pinched tighter than my jeans after Christmas dinner. We ended up in a muddy farmyard, apologising profusely to a bemused farmer before backtracking with a sheepish wave. Still, by the time we crested the hill towards Ilfracombe, the clouds parted, and there it was: our characterful barn conversion, all cosy and inviting, with a bubbling hot tub promising evening bliss. First impressions? Spot on – it felt like slipping into an old friend’s hug.

We’d arrived buzzing with that holiday anticipation, you know, the kind where you’re already plotting cream teas and cliff walks. But Devon’s magic isn’t in the obvious spots; it’s in the hidden gems you stumble on when you veer off the path – literally, in our case. The South West Coast Path runs right past the door, so day one, we laced up and headed out, only to take a wrong turn down a barely-there trail. What a result! It spat us out at a secret cove, miles from the crowds – just pebbles, waves crashing like applause, and a lone heron eyeing us suspiciously. We picnicked there with pasties from a tiny Ilfracombe bakery we’d found by accident (pro tip: their sausage rolls are criminally good), feeling like we’d cracked some local code.

Next morning, fancying a paddle, we kayaked from Lee Bay, a mile away, but got disoriented by the tide and washed up at this tucked-away beach where the sand sparkles like it’s laced with glitter. No surfers, no chip vans – just us, seals barking from the rocks, and the sea so clear you could spot crabs doing the backstroke. Hilarious moment: I capsized trying to impress the other half with a fancy turn, emerging like a drowned labrador. Laughed till we cried, then sprawled in the hot tub back at the barn, bubbles masking my soggy shame.

Woolacombe’s surf beach is only four miles off, but we skipped the main drag for a detour that led to a wild inlet perfect for paddleboarding – glassy water, gulls wheeling overhead, and not a soul in sight. Got properly lost once en route to the Victorian harbour in Ilfracombe (a quick mile’s wander), ending up at a forgotten lighthouse trail with views that stopped us in our tracks. Seals lolled about, dolphins finned the horizon – pure luck, all of it.

Looking back, that’s the joy of these off-the-beaten-track jaunts: they force you to slow down, ditch the map, and let Devon reveal her secrets. I’m usually a planner to a fault – spreadsheets for packing lists, honestly – but getting lost taught me to embrace the wander. We left sunburnt, sandy, and utterly content, already plotting a return to chase more accidental adventures. If you’re after a proper North Devon escape, this is your spot.