We’d barely got off the train at Barnstaple when the first mishap struck: my rucksack split clean open on the platform, scattering teabags and a rogue packet of ginger nuts across the concourse. By the time we’d scooped everything back in and caught the bus up the coast, I was already laughing at how the day was shaping up. The little 1 Bed Cottage in Ilfracombe sat just a short stroll from the beach, its whitewashed walls glowing in the late-afternoon sun, and the moment we stepped inside the smell of fresh paint and sea air told us we’d landed somewhere special.

After unpacking what was left of my dignity, the first order of business was food. We wandered straight into town and found a cheerful little bakery still open, where warm pasties were handed over in greaseproof paper and devoured on a bench overlooking the harbour. That evening we tried the pub on the corner, all low beams and friendly chatter, and tucked into proper battered fish with thick-cut chips and mushy peas. The landlord even slipped us an extra slice of lemon when he heard we’d only just arrived.

Next morning the sun was out, so we headed for the weekly market tucked behind the high street. Stalls groaned with local cheeses, crusty loaves and jars of homemade chutney, and we filled a tote bag without even trying. Back at the cottage we attempted a proper Devon cream tea, only to discover I’d bought clotted cream instead of the whipped sort; the scones still tasted brilliant, though the jam-to-cream ratio debate lasted all afternoon.

By teatime we were peckish again, so we strolled down to a harbourside café for crab sandwiches piled high with crisp lettuce and a generous dollop of mayo. Later, determined to cook something ourselves, we picked up fresh mussels and a crusty loaf from the fishmonger and set about steaming them with garlic and cider on the cottage’s tiny hob. The result was noisy, messy and absolutely delicious, though I did spend ten minutes chasing an escaped mussel across the floor.

Sitting outside afterwards with a pint from the local brewery, watching the light fade over the water, I realised the journey’s silly start had set the tone for everything since: nothing had gone quite to plan, yet every detour had led us straight to another plate of something good.