I’ll never forget the drive down to Kentisbury – that classic British holiday start where everything’s going swimmingly until it isn’t. We’d piled into the car in Bristol, kids buzzing with excitement, me navigating via a dodgy phone signal, and my other half at the wheel. About halfway through the twisty lanes of Exmoor, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us down what looked like a sheep track masquerading as a road. We ended up proper lost, bumping along with hedges scraping the sides, laughing nervously as the kids declared it an “adventure.” Twenty minutes later, we emerged, a bit windswept but grinning, right on the edge of this gorgeous little village. And there it was – our stylish home-away-from-home, a proper family bolthole sleeping eight across four bedrooms, tucked on the fringe of Exmoor National Park. First impressions? Bloody brilliant. The garden stretched out invitingly, hot tub steaming gently like it was waiting just for us.

We’d been craving that proper Devon escape, you know, the kind where you ditch the crowds for hidden corners. No grand plans, just wander off and see what we stumbled on. That first afternoon, after unpacking, we followed a faint path from the garden that the owners had mentioned in passing – no signs, no fanfare. It led us straight into a secret valley, all lush ferns and babbling streams, where wild ponies grazed without a care. We picnicked there by accident, feeling like we’d gatecrashed Narnia. Pure magic, and not a soul in sight.

Next day, we headed out for what was meant to be a quick jaunt along the South West Coastal Path, but true to form, we took a wrong turn at a fork (my navigation skills again, guilty as charged). Instead of the main route, we tumbled down to a pebbly cove you’d never find on a map – think jagged cliffs, seals barking offshore, and waves crashing just for our entertainment. The kids spent hours skimmying stones, while we adults cracked open thermos flasks of tea, marvelling at how getting lost pays off. It got me thinking, doesn’t it? In the rush of everyday life back home, we’re always chasing the obvious highlights. Out here, it’s the detours that stick – those off-the-beaten-track gems that make you breathe deeper.

Evenings were for regrouping in the garden, dipping into that hot tub as the sun dipped behind the hills, steam rising with the scent of woodsmoke from a nearby farm. One night, a “shortcut” back from the village pub (okay, fine, the one in Kentisbury itself) had us weaving through ancient hedgerows to a dew-pond hidden in a hollow, fireflies dancing like something out of a fairy tale. Kayaking? We saved that for Combe Martin, just a short hop away, paddling into sea caves that felt like our private discovery, away from the tour groups.

Looking back, that mishap on the drive set the tone – Devon’s best bits aren’t signposted; they’re the ones you find by faffing about and embracing the unknown. We left with muddy boots, full hearts, and a promise to return for more accidental wonders. If you’re after a peaceful gang getaway, this corner of Exmoor’s got it in spades.