I’ll never forget the drive down to Dartmouth – what should’ve been a straightforward jaunt from the M5 turned into a proper comedy of errors. Sat-nav decided to play silly buggers just as we hit the twisty lanes of the South Hams, rerouting us through some narrow hedge-lined backroad that had me white-knuckling the wheel while my other half clutched the dashboard like it was a life raft. Then, to top it off, we had a minor prang with a rogue pheasant that shot out from nowhere, leaving a feather or two on the bumper but nothing more than a good story. By the time we crested the hill overlooking the Dart estuary, I was frazzled, dreaming of a cuppa and a sit-down.

Pulling into the waterside spot in historic Dartmouth felt like stumbling into a postcard. There it was – this cracking two-storey duplex apartment, all cosy and inviting with a Juliet balcony begging for a GandT at sunset. We’d been buzzing with anticipation on the approach, imagining lazy days by the water, but nothing prepared us for those first impressions. Stepping inside, the open-plan living space hit us like a warm hug: massive windows framing the marina’s bobbing boats, the gentle slap of waves below, and that fresh sea air wafting in. Perfect romantic bolthole for us two, no doubt – I could already picture us curled up on the sofa with fish and chips from the local takeaway.

We dumped the bags and headed straight out to shake off the road rage. A cheeky wander down to the quay was just what the doctor ordered. Dartmouth’s buzzing little harbour is pure magic – salty breezes, yachts creaking at their moorings, and folks ambling about with ice creams from the van by the slipway. We grabbed pasties from a hole-in-the-wall spot (Devon’s finest, flaky and steaming), then perched on a bench watching the ferry chug across to Kingswear. Laughed our heads off when I nearly dropped mine in the water trying to snap a selfie – classic me, all thumbs after a long drive.

That first evening, we cracked open a bottle of local cider on the balcony, toasting to mishaps survived. The sun dipped behind the hills, painting the water gold, and I had one of those quiet moments, you know? Staring out there, pint in hand, I thought about how we’re always rushing about back home, and here we were, proper chilled for once. No grand plans, just us and this gem of a spot. Next morning kicked off with brekkie overlooking the estuary – bacon sarnies from the Co-op, nothing fancy – before a gentle stroll along the promenade to Blackpool Sands, just a short hop away. Paddled in the shallows, skimmed stones, and dodged the odd jellyfish washing up. Bliss.

Honestly, those first 24 hours sorted us right out. The arrival kerfuffle faded into chuckles, replaced by that easy Devon rhythm. If you’re after a waterside escape that feels like a proper treat without the faff, this is it. We’re already plotting a return – pheasant feathers and all.