I’ll never forget the drive down to Mortehoe last month – a proper British summer jaunt that started with high hopes and a packed boot full of snacks. We’d set off from Bristol nice and early, plotting a scenic route along the A39, windows down and Radio 2 blasting. But halfway there, just past Barnstaple, the heavens opened and turned the road into a river. Cue the classic comedy of errors: windscreen wipers on full pelt, me squinting through the spray, and the kids in the back chanting “Are we there yet?” like a stuck record. We pulled over at a layby for a soggy pasty from a van, laughing about how holidays always kick off with a mini-disaster. By the time we crested the hill towards Combesgate Beach, though, the clouds parted just enough to tease us with that golden glow. My heart did a little flip – you know that buzz when you’re finally almost somewhere special?

Pulling up to the place was pure magic. This contemporary holiday home sits high above the beach, all sleek lines and effortless luxury, like it’s been plonked there by some coastal fairy godmother. Glass-fronted deck stretching out with views that make your jaw drop – waves crashing below, seals popping up now and then. It sleeps twelve easy, with five cracking bedrooms, but we were a cosy six, which meant bags of space. Hot tub bubbling away, cinema room begging for a lazy film night – first impressions? Blimey, we’d hit the jackpot.

What we craved most, though, wasn’t ticking off bucket lists or manic beach dashes. Nah, this trip was all about doing sod all, and boy, did it deliver. We’d flop into the garden first thing – well, deck, really, but with that lush setup it felt like our own private Eden. Mugs of tea in hand, feet up on loungers, staring out at the sea doing its endless dance. I’d crack open a book – some daft crime thriller I’d been saving – and lose hours while the world slowed to a drip. The kids (alright, teenagers now) discovered the joy of doing nothing too: sprawled out reading comics, dipping in the hot tub between chapters. No schedules, no rush. One morning, I caught myself just sitting there, breeze ruffling the pages, thinking, “When did I last switch off like this?” Work’s been a grind lately, emails pinging non-stop, and here I was, properly present. Gentle nudge to the soul, that.

Lunches were lazy affairs – fresh bread from the village shop in Mortehoe, cheese from a local dairy, devoured on the deck with the beach soundtrack. Afternoons melted into naps or gentle wanders down to Combesgate’s sands, toes in the surf, then back for more reading as the sun dipped. Evenings? Cinema room with popcorn, some rom-com rubbish that had us in stitches. No big adventures needed; the joy was in the stillness, the rhythm of tides and turning pages. We left feeling recharged, lighter – proof that sometimes the best holiday is the one where you barely move. If you’re after that proper unwind, this Devon gem’s your spot. Can’t wait to go back.