I’ll never forget the drive down to Salcombe last month – what should’ve been a straightforward jaunt from Exeter turned into a comedy of errors when I took a wrong turn near Totnes and ended up navigating those narrow lanes with hedges brushing the wing mirrors. My satnav was having a right old tantrum, chirping “recalculating” every two minutes, and I was convinced we’d miss the sunset check-in. But somehow, we rolled up just as the sun dipped behind the hills, hearts racing a bit, but buzzing with that proper holiday anticipation. You know, the kind where you’re already imagining kicking off your shoes and cracking open a cold one.

The cottage was a gem – a cosy, traditional spot tucked away in a quiet corner, all low doorways and welcoming nooks that screamed “relax here”. First impressions? Spot on. The garden wrapped around it like a hug, with that salty sea air drifting in from the estuary, and views peeking out over the rooftops towards the water. We dumped the bags, poured a cuppa, and just sat there on the patio, grinning like idiots. After the drive’s chaos, it felt like we’d stumbled into our own little paradise.

The joy of the whole trip was doing sod all, really – and I mean that in the best possible way. Devon does that to you, doesn’t it? Slows everything right down. Mornings started late, with me pottering out to the garden in my slippers, brew in hand, watching the mist lift off the Salcombe estuary. That garden was the star – wildish in spots, with lavender buzzing with bees and a hammock slung between the trees that became my throne. I’d swing there for hours, lost in a dog-eared paperback, the kind you forget the plot of because the birdsong’s too distracting. Lunch was whatever was knocking about – cheese on crackers, maybe some pasties from the local shop down the hill – eaten sprawled on a blanket, no rush.

Afternoons blurred into dozy bliss. A gentle wander to the nearby beach at low tide, paddling in the shallows with the kids (who miraculously didn’t moan about the lack of screens), skim stones, then back for more garden lounging. Evenings were fairy lights on the patio, a simple barbecue sizzling with local sausages, and that golden hour light turning everything soft. One night, I caught myself staring at the stars – proper stargazing, no light pollution – and had this quiet moment of reflection. Life back home’s all hustle, deadlines, and doom-scrolling; here, I realised how knackered I’d been. Just breathing, reading, being. No grand plans, no Instagram poses. Pure, lazy recharge.

By the end of the week, we’d barely scratched the surface of Salcombe’s charms – the harbour’s boats bobbing just a stroll away, ice creams from the van on the front – but that was the point. We left feeling lighter, promising ourselves more of these nothing-much holidays. Devon’s got that magic for unwinding; I’m already plotting a return.