I’ll never forget the drive down to Westward Ho! in Devon – a proper British road trip that started with high hopes and ended with me swearing at the sat-nav (under my breath, mind). We’d loaded up the car with wellies, waterproofs, and enough crisps to last a siege, buzzing about the walks we’d smash along that epic coastline. But halfway through Devon’s twisty lanes, the heavens opened, and we hit a massive puddle that turned the A39 into a river. Skid, splash, heart in mouth – somehow we made it without aquaplaning into a hedge. By the time we rolled into town, I was knackered but grinning like an idiot at the first glimpse of those golden sands stretching out for miles.

Pulling up to this cracking luxury holiday home felt like winning the lottery. Tucked right in the heart of Westward Ho!, it’s the sort of place that screams “relax and recharge” – modern vibes with all the comforts, perfect for a family like ours. The beach was literally on the doorstep, dog-friendly year-round, and I could already picture us padding about building sandcastles or dipping toes in the surf. First impressions? Spot on. We dumped the bags, cracked open a brew, and stepped out to that fresh sea air. Anticipation levels: through the roof.

Day one, the weather gods smiled – rare as hen’s teeth in these parts. Blue skies, not a cloud in sight. We hit the South West Coastal Path straight away, strolling the full length of the village with views out to sea that’d make your jaw drop. It hugs the cliffs, dipping into little coves, and we wandered for hours, spotting seals bobbing about and gulls wheeling overhead. Proper invigorating stuff, with the waves crashing below. Lunch was fish and chips from a beach shack, eaten on the sand – bliss.

But oh, British weather, you fickle friend. Next morning, it was lashing it down, wind howling like a banshee. No chance of a coastal hike; we’d have been blown off the path. Instead, we pivoted to Northam Burrows Country Park, just behind the beach. Those sand dunes are a walker’s dream, even in the rain – miles of trails weaving through marram grass, with hides for spotting birds. We layered up, umbrellas inside-out in seconds, and trudged on, laughing at the mud splattering our jeans. It turned into one of those character-building slogs: feet soaked, but the wildflowers peeking through and the empty expanse made it magical. Halfway round, we ducked into the Royal North Devon Golf Club next door for a warming coffee and a cheeky scone. Not golfers ourselves, but the views from their terrace over the links were stunning, even through the downpour.

By afternoon, the clouds parted just enough for another go at the Coastal Path. Shorter this time, but the changing light on the sea was something else – moody greys turning golden as the sun fought back. We clocked a good few miles, chatting nonsense and reflecting on how these hikes, rain or shine, are what holidays are about. Me? I’m the fair-weather walker at heart, always dreaming of dry trails, but Devon taught me there’s joy in the squelch too. Got me thinking: maybe I need more of this unpredictable adventure in my everyday life, not just when I’m on hol.

A few more days of dodging showers and chasing sunbeams along the dunes and paths, and we were hooked. Westward Ho! delivered on every front – those walks in all weathers left us fitter, happier, and with stories for years. If you’re after a spot to lace up your boots and let the British elements sort the men from the boys, this is it. Can’t wait to go back.