I’ll never forget the drive down to Devon – we’d packed the car to bursting with kids’ beach toys, cool bags stuffed with picnic bits, and enough crisps to siege a castle. Halfway through Somerset, disaster struck: a rogue seagull dive-bombed our windscreen, leaving a streak of what I can only describe as abstract art. The kids thought it was hilarious, chanting “Bird poo! Bird poo!” while I fumbled for wipes, cursing my luck under my breath. Still, by the time we hit the twisty North Devon lanes, the anticipation was bubbling up. Woolacombe’s golden sands were calling, and after a year of rainy half-terms, this seaside bolt-hole felt like pure gold.

Pulling up to the apartment, my heart did a little flip – right on the seafront, with those unbeatable views over the waves crashing in. It’s a comfy, modern spot, all light and airy with big windows that make you feel like you’re already on the beach. First impressions? Spot on. We dumped the bags, kicked off our shoes, and within minutes the little ones were noses pressed to the glass, spotting surfers riding the swells. “Can we go now, Mummy?” they begged. No time like the present.

Our days slipped into that perfect holiday rhythm – lazy mornings with brekkie on the balcony, toast crumbs flying everywhere as the sea breeze whipped through. We’d wander down to Woolacombe Beach, just a hop away, buckets in hand for sandcastle marathons that inevitably turned into moats of chaos when the tide sneaked in. One afternoon, I tried building an epic turret, only for my four-year-old to flatten it with a gleeful “Oops!” Cottage life, eh? It’s all about those unscripted giggles amid the sandy mayhem.

We kept it simple, pottering along the coastal path to Mortehoe for ice creams that dripped faster than the kids could lick. The National Trust café there does a cracking cream tea – scones still warm, clotted cream piled high. Back at the apartment, evenings were for paddling in the rock pools at low tide, hunting for crabs and pretending we were explorers. The chaos peaked one night when we attempted a family board game; Monopoly turned into a riot of fake money flying and alliances crumbling faster than our sandcastles. I caught myself laughing till my sides hurt, realising how these daft moments recharge the batteries like nothing else.

There was a quiet spell one sunset, sat on the balcony with a cuppa, watching the sky turn pink over the Atlantic. The kids were finally knackered, sprawled out with their shells, and I had this gentle pang – life’s so frantic back home, but here, amid the salt air and simple joys, it all feels doable. No grand plans, just us, the sea, and a bit of lovely disorder.

A week wasn’t nearly enough, but driving away, windows down and seagull-free, I knew we’d be back. Devon’s got that magic for family breaks – unpretentious, restorative, and full of heart.