We’d barely made it past the outskirts of Barnstaple when the satnav decided we were better off taking the scenic route, which is how we ended up on a single-track lane with a tractor coming the other way. I reversed into what looked like a gateway but was actually a very deep puddle, so by the time we reached Coast View I was driving a mud-splattered car with one very soggy trainer. Still, the first sight of the little white cottage perched above Woolacombe Bay made the soggy sock worth it; the sea was a perfect hazy blue and the breeze carried that unmistakable mix of salt and warm grass.

After a quick cuppa on the deck we decided the weather looked set-fair, so we laced up proper walking boots and set off along the coast path towards Morte Point. The trail was springy underfoot and the gorse was in full yellow bloom, humming with bees. We stopped every ten minutes just to gawp at the view: Lundy Island a faint smudge on the horizon, waves crashing against black rocks far below. By the time we reached the old lookout both of us were glowing with that peculiar satisfaction that only comes from walking and chatting in equal measure.

Halfway back the clouds rolled in with typical Devon swiftness, turning the sky the colour of wet slate. We’d planned a longer loop to the little cove at Grunta Beach, but the first fat drops convinced us otherwise. Instead we ducked into the sheltered dip behind the dunes and watched the shower sweep across the bay, sharing a slightly squashed flapjack from the cottage welcome pack. The rain passed as quickly as it arrived, leaving everything sparkling and the air smelling of wet heather. We wandered down onto Woolacombe’s wide sandy beach, shoes in hand, paddling in the shallows while families built elaborate sandcastles nearby.

By late afternoon the sun was back and the path up to the cottage looked inviting again, so we took the gentler inland route through a sheep field, stopping to let a curious lamb sniff our fingers. Back at Coast View we kicked off sandy shoes on the doorstep and flopped onto the little sofa with the doors wide open. Looking out at the now-golden water I realised how rarely we slow down enough to let a single day unfold like this—one small wrong turn, one sudden shower, and a handful of unplanned moments that somehow felt exactly right.