I’ll never forget the drive down to Devon last month – sat nav taking us on a scenic detour through some narrow lanes that had me gripping the wheel like it was a rollercoaster. We’d packed too many crisps, as you do, and hit a massive puddle that turned the windscreen into a Jackson Pollock painting. Queue wipers on full blast and a bit of good-natured bickering about whose idea it was to leave London at rush hour. But as we crested the hill into Dawlish, the sea sparkling under a rare blue sky, all that melted away. I was buzzing – proper holiday anticipation, you know?

Pulling up to the property, a cosy modern chalet-style spot right on the edge of things, my first impressions were spot on. It had that welcoming vibe, with big windows framing the views and everything laid out just so. We dumped the bags and cracked open a cuppa, already plotting our walks. Devon’s got that magic for ramblers, doesn’t it? All those clifftop paths and hidden coves begging to be explored.

First day, the weather gods smiled – bright and breezy. We headed straight for the South Devon Coast Path, just a short stroll from the door. It’s pure bliss, that stretch: rugged cliffs dropping to the sea, gulls wheeling overhead, and the odd seal popping up like it’s showing off. We wandered towards Dawlish Warren, about a couple of miles out, dodging rock pools and laughing at my rubbish attempts to skim stones. I felt ten years younger, striding out with the salt air filling my lungs. Lunch was fish and chips from a beachside van – greasy perfection wrapped in paper.

But oh, the British weather, eh? Next morning, it flipped like a moody teenager. Grey skies rolled in overnight, and by breakfast, it was lashing down. No way were we letting that scupper things. We layered up in waterproofs (lesson learned: always pack the good ones) and hit a local loop trail through the dunes at Warren. Muddy paths turned it into a comedy of slips – me ending up on my bum once, which had us in stitches. The rain eased to a misty drizzle, turning the marram grass all ethereal. We spotted a few hardy dog-walkers and chatted to an old chap who swore he’d done the full coastal path in worse.

By afternoon, a cheeky sunbeam broke through, so we pushed on to the nature reserve paths – reed beds swaying, birds flitting about. It was one of those moments that makes you reflect: life in the city’s non-stop, but out here, plodding along with the weather throwing curveballs, you realise it’s the unpredictability that makes it brilliant. Plans change, you adapt, and somehow it’s better for it.

Last day, blue skies again – we revisited the clifftops at low tide, picking our way along the beach below. Sore feet, windswept hair, but grinning like idiots. Devon’s walks are the real star; they pull you in, weather and all. If you’re after a proper reset, grab your wellies and go. We’re already plotting a return.