I’ll never forget the drive down to our little holiday spot in North Devon – sat-nav insisting we were nearly there, only for us to take a wrong turn and end up nose-to-tail behind a tractor trundling along some impossibly narrow lane. Me and Sarah were giggling by that point, windows down, breathing in that proper countryside air thick with the scent of damp grass and wildflowers. It was one of those classic British road trip moments that turns a minor faff into a story you retell for weeks.

As we finally pulled up, hearts racing a bit with that arrival buzz – you know, wondering if it’d live up to the photos – we weren’t disappointed. Perched just off the Devonshire coastline, this homely escape commands a picture-postcard position overlooking the River Torridge. It’s two places blended into one superb stay, a farmhouse and converted barn that gives you all the space for a relaxed couple’s break without feeling echoey or empty. First impressions? Spot on. The views out over the water had us dropping our bags and just standing there, jaws dropped, as the sun dipped low and painted everything golden. Peaceful doesn’t even cover it – pure tranquillity, with birdsong and the gentle lap of the river.

We wasted no time settling into cottage life, that lovely chaos of unpacking hampers and realising you’ve forgotten the teabags (panic stations!). But oh, the simple pleasures kicked in quick. Mornings started with brews on the go, then we’d wander straight out onto the trails right at the doorstep. The Tarka Trail’s a belter – flat paths winding through woods and fields, perfect for ambling hand-in-hand, spotting deer and pretending we’re proper explorers. We’d pack a flask and cheese sarnies, laughing when the midges had a go at us. One afternoon, we pushed on to the Southwest Coast Path nearby, puffing up a gentle hill for those jaw-dropping sea views. No need for epic hikes; just enough to work up an appetite.

Evenings were all about that riverside haven vibe. We’d fire up the barbie (weather permitting, mind – Devon’s got that cheeky forecast), cracking open a bottle of local cider while the river sparkled below. One night, Sarah tried her hand at a full English, only for the sausages to stage a mini-revolt and stick to the pan – cue much scraping and helpless chuckling. It’s those daft moments that make it, isn’t it? Reminded me how we get caught up in the daily grind back home, forgetting to just switch off and muck about together.

We popped over to Westward Ho! one day, just eight miles away – that massive sandy beach calling for a proper paddle, fish and chips wrapped in paper, eaten on the pebbles while watching families build wonky sandcastles. Clovelly’s donkey lanes were a giggle too, though we took it steady, more window-shopping than full-on climbing. Back at the retreat, it was all about cosy nights in, feet up, with the world outside fading away. Honestly, it was the perfect reset – no frills, just us, the river, and a bit of gentle chaos. We’re already plotting a return; Devon’s got us hooked.