I’ll never forget the drive down to that little spot near Dolton in Devon – sat nav insisting we take a cheeky shortcut through some winding lanes that turned out to be more like goat tracks. About halfway there, we had a proper comedy moment: a rogue sheep decided to photobomb our progress, planting itself bang in the middle of the road and staring us down like it owned the place. Took ten minutes of gentle honking and me hopping out with a bag of crisps to bribe it off – classic British countryside chaos!

By the time we rolled up, I was buzzing with that holiday anticipation, you know? Wondering if the rain would hold off or if we’d be bunkered down with tea and biscuits. First impressions? Spot on. Tucked behind secure gates next to the owners’ place, it’s this smart first-floor apartment you reach via a sturdy metal staircase – mind your step, especially if you’re laden with bags like we were. Stepping inside through the utility room (handy for wellies and muddy gear), it opened straight into a lovely open-plan space with double doors onto a balcony overlooking rolling countryside. Perfect perch for a cuppa, gazing out at the moors.

We’d planned a week of proper Devon walking adventures, straddling Dartmoor and Exmoor’s edges, with the North Devon coast just a hop away. Day one dawned crisp and bright – rare for these parts! – so we laced up and headed out for a cracking five-mile loop from the door, past hedgerows bursting with wildflowers and buzzards circling overhead. That fresh air hit like a tonic; I felt ten years younger, striding along with the dog pulling ahead like he’d been let out of jail.

But oh, the British weather – it’s got a mind of its own, doesn’t it? Next morning, we woke to lashing rain, turning our ambitious Dartmoor hike into a soggy splash about. Plans B, C and D kicked in: a shorter tramp along local lanes, dodging puddles the size of small lakes, then hunkering down on the balcony under an umbrella, watching mist roll over the hills like a scene from a Brontë novel. Laughed about it over lunch – me slipping on mud and ending up looking like a drowned rat, husband snapping pics for posterity. “This is character-building,” I quipped, secretly loving the excuse for extra scones.

By midweek, the sun peeked out again, gifting us a belter of a day for a coastal clifftop walk near the North Devon shore – those waves crashing below, gorse in full yellow blaze. We timed it just right, spotting seals bobbing in the surf. Back at base, peeling off damp layers in the utility, I had one of those quiet moments: staring out from the living space, rain pattering softly now, reflecting on how these unpredictable jaunts remind you life’s not about flawless forecasts. It’s the squelchy boots, the sudden rainbows, the simple joy of a warm spot to dry off. Devon delivered, mishaps and all – already plotting a return when the weather gods are feeling generous.