I’ll never forget the drive down to Woolacombe – that classic British holiday start where the satnav decides to have a midlife crisis just as we hit the A361. We’d been buzzing with anticipation, windows down, singing along to some dodgy 90s playlist, dreaming of salty sea air and kicking off our shoes. Then, bam – it reroutes us down a narrow lane that felt more like a sheep track than a road. Twigs scraping the sides of the car, my mate Dave yelling “reverse, reverse!” while I white-knuckled the wheel. We emerged laughing, a bit late, but with that proper adventure glow already setting in.

Pulling up to this cracking seaside house, I was gobsmacked. It’s the sort of place that screams family get-together heaven: five bedrooms for our lot of ten, most with those jaw-dropping ocean views that make you forget the world. There’s a sundeck with a bubbling hot tub – pure bliss after a day out – and it’s all laid out so brilliantly for mates and kids to sprawl without tripping over each other. Just a short stroll to the award-winning beach and that epic South West Coast Path. First impressions? We cracked open the prosecco on the deck before we’d even unpacked, watching the waves roll in. Felt like we’d stumbled into paradise.

But the real magic? Getting properly lost. We ditched the car keys on day one – who needs ’em when you’ve got legs and a bit of curiosity? The Coast Path became our playground, veering off the main drags onto those hidden coves you only find by accident. One morning, instead of heading to the obvious beach café, we wandered down a barely-there path behind the dunes near Morte Point. Ended up at this secret pebble beach, not a soul in sight, just seals barking in the distance and rock pools teeming with crabs. We spent hours poking about, the kids building epic dens from driftwood, me failing hilariously at skimming stones. “You throw like a dad at a barbecue,” Dave ribbed. Guilty as charged.

Another gem: we took a wrong turn scrambling over the cliffs towards Barricane Beach (that fossil-hunting spot locals whisper about), and bam – a tucked-away valley with wildflowers up to your knees and a freshwater stream trickling to the sea. Picnicked there with pasties from the village bakery, feet dangling in the water. No crowds, no maps, just that serendipitous thrill of discovery. Evenings, we’d hot tub under the stars, swapping tales of the day’s detours, the house’s views turning the sunset into our private show.

Reflecting on it now, sat back home with a cuppa, I realise it’s the getting lost that sticks. In a world of Google Maps, there’s something dead reassuring about letting Devon’s wild edges lead you. We could’ve stuck to the tourist traps, but those accidental finds – the empty coves, the forgotten paths – made it unforgettable. If you’re after a proper unwind, grab a bunch of your favourites, point the car north, and let the mishaps happen. You won’t regret it.