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 sarnies, and the dog’s lead dangling from the mirror like a talisman. Halfway through Somerset, disaster struck: a rogue seagull dive-bombed our windscreen, leaving a splatter that turned the M5 into a feathery crime scene. I spent the next 20 miles squinting through the mess, humming along to Radio 2 to keep the little ones from moaning. By the time we hit the twisty lanes of North Devon, my anticipation was sky-high – visions of sandy toes and cream teas dancing in my head.

Pulling up to the shoreline apartment in Woolacombe, I let out a proper sigh of relief. It was just what we’d hoped for: a comfy, modern spot right by the sea, with that welcoming vibe that screams family getaway. Pets welcome too, which was a godsend for our bouncy labrador, who immediately claimed the sofa as his throne. First impressions? Spot on. The sea view from the lounge had us grinning like idiots before we’d even unpacked – waves crashing below, the beach stretching out like a golden invitation.

We wasted no time diving into that proper Devon cottage life chaos, the sort that’s messy but brilliant. Mornings kicked off with brekkie chaos: burnt toast, spilled milk, and the kids arguing over who got the last Weetabix while I brewed a decent cuppa on the little kitchen hob. Then it was down to Woolacombe Beach, a five-minute wander away, for sandcastle marathons that inevitably collapsed into tidal puddle chases. The water was bracing – proper North Atlantic chill – but we splashed about anyway, building epic moats and pretending we were pirates fending off seals (there were loads bobbing offshore, cheeky blighters eyeing our lunch).

Afternoons meant ambling along the coastal path to Mortehoe, picking blackberries and dodging cow pats from the roaming herds. We’d flop on the grass for pasties from the village shop – steaming hot, proper Cornish jobbies with chunky beef – and watch paragliders swoop over the cliffs. Back at the apartment, it was barefoot lounging, board games that descended into giggles, and barbecues on the patio where the smoke wafted straight into the neighbour’s washing line (sorry, not sorry). One evening, the kids discovered the joy of rock pooling at low tide, shrieking over tiny crabs and anemones – pure magic, that.

Of course, it wasn’t all Instagram-perfect. I had a moment one rainy afternoon, staring out at the grey sea while the family napped, thinking how these simple daft days recharge me more than any spa break. Amid the towel piles and sandy footprints, there’s this quiet joy in just being together, no schedules, no rush. We left with sun-kissed noses, a car full of shells, and promises to return. Devon does that to you – hooks you with its wild, windswept charm and leaves you craving more cottage chaos. Can’t wait to go back.