I’ll never forget the drive down to Northam in Devon – we’d packed the car to the gills with wellies, waterproofs and enough crisps to last a siege, but about halfway there, just past Exeter, the satnav decided to have a midlife crisis and sent us on a detour through some winding lanes that felt like they were auditioning for a horror film. Branches scraping the roof, cows staring us down like we’d gatecrashed their picnic – classic British road trip mishap. But as we finally crested the hill and spotted the coast, all that faded. The sea sparkled under a rare blue sky, and my heart did a little flip. I couldn’t wait to kick off my shoes and breathe it all in.

Pulling up to this cracking four-bed family cottage, I was chuffed to bits. It’s the sort of place that wraps you in a big hug – cosy, welcoming, perfect for our group of eight mates and kids. Spacious enough for everyone to spread out, with a garden that begged for barbecues (weather permitting, mind). First impressions? Spot on. We dumped the bags and headed straight out, buzzing with that arrival high.

Day one was a belter – bright sunshine, not a cloud in sight. We strolled the half-mile to Westward Ho! beach, kids whooping as they dashed into the rockpools, hunting for crabs like tiny treasure seekers. From there, we wandered into Northam Burrows Country Park, those rolling sand dunes alive with birds and butterflies. It was pure magic, the kind of walk where you forget time exists. We picnicked by the estuary, toes in the sand, laughing about nothing.

But oh, the British weather – it’s got a wicked sense of humour. Next morning, the sky turned biblical, rain lashing down like it held a grudge. Our big coastal path hike to Abbotsham Cliffs? Scrubbed. Instead, we layered up and embraced the soggy adventure. Tramping through the dunes again, wind whipping our faces, we turned it into a game: who could spot the most wildlife without slipping in a puddle? Seals bobbed in the waves below, and the kids declared it “epic pirate weather”. I’ll admit, trudging back soaked to the bone had me reflecting – why do I always pack the wrong coat? But there’s something character-building about it, isn’t there? Teaches you to roll with the punches, or in this case, the downpours.

When the clouds parted midweek, we made a beeline for Appledore, just two miles away – those pastel cottages and estuary views are straight out of a postcard. Another rainy spell forced a rethink, so we stuck closer, looping back through the park’s trails, dodging mud and marvelling at how the landscape shifts from golden dunes to wild, windswept grasses. Even on the dreich days, those walks felt alive, forcing us to notice the little things: rabbit prints, the crash of waves, the fresh tang of sea air.

By the end, we’d hiked miles in sun and storm, closer as a gang than ever. Devon’s walks are brilliant like that – unpredictable, but always rewarding. If you’re after a proper getaway, grab your boots and go. You won’t regret it.