We’d barely made it off the M5 when the satnav decided we were better off in a field near South Molton, and by the time we’d backtracked through winding lanes the sun was already sliding behind the hills. By the time we finally pulled up outside Memory House the light was that soft, golden sort you only seem to get on the north Devon coast, and I was still muttering about “just one more roundabout” while trying to untangle the dog lead from the handbrake.

The cottage sat right at the edge of Mortehoe, a short hop from Woolacombe’s wide sandy sweep, and the first thing that hit me was how quiet it felt after the dual carriageway. A low stone wall, a little gravelled parking spot, and then the sudden view across fields straight to the sea. We dumped the bags, kicked off shoes that were already full of grit, and decided the best plan was simply to follow our noses along the coast path.

It was meant to be a gentle wander, nothing heroic, but the British weather had other ideas. One minute we were strolling past gorse in full yellow bloom, the next a sneaky Atlantic breeze whipped up and the clouds decided to audition for a rain advert. We ducked into a sheltered dip near the cliffs, shared a slightly squashed pasty we’d bought in the village, and watched the showers march across the bay like they owned the place. When it cleared we carried on, trainers now a fetching shade of Devon mud, and the path opened out to give us long views back towards Woolacombe’s lifeguard hut and the rows of colourful beach huts.

By late afternoon the sun had muscled its way back, and we spent an hour on the sand hunting for the perfect flat stone to skim. The tide was kind, leaving wide stretches perfect for barefoot walking, and every so often a proper wave would sneak up and soak our rolled-up trousers. We laughed about how our “light stroll” had turned into a full coastal yomp, yet neither of us minded; there’s something about salty air and unexpected showers that makes you slow down whether you planned to or not.

Back at Memory House the kettle went on and sandy socks were abandoned by the door. I caught myself in the little mirror above the sink, hair doing its usual post-walk impression of a haystack, and realised I hadn’t checked work emails once since we arrived. That small, accidental break from the usual rush felt like the real start of the holiday.