I’ll never forget the drive down to Devon – a proper faff from the start. I’d packed the car the night before, convinced I’d beat the traffic, but no, some numpty in a white van decided to play dodgems on the M5, leaving me white-knuckled and late. By the time I turned off towards Dawlish, the satnav was moaning about a closed road, so I ended up navigating by gut instinct and a dodgy phone signal. Still, as I crested the hill and spotted the sea glinting in the distance, all that stress melted away. I was buzzing – proper holiday anticipation, you know?

Pulling up to the cottage, my first impressions were spot on. It’s one of those cosy, traditional places right in the heart of things, with that welcoming vibe that screams “put your feet up”. I dumped my bags, cracked open a cuppa, and eyed the coastal path map on the kitchen table. Walking was the plan – miles of it, come rain or shine. Devon’s got some cracking hikes around here, and with the beach and cliffs on the doorstep, I was sorted.

First day, the weather gods smiled: blue skies, a gentle breeze off the Channel. I laced up my boots and headed out along the South Devon Coast Path towards Coryton Cove. It’s a belter of a stroll – rugged cliffs dropping to sandy beaches, gulls wheeling overhead, and not a soul in sight early on. I proper powered on, feeling like Bear Grylls minus the telly crew, stopping only for a pasty from a beach kiosk. The views back over Dawlish Warren were stunning, all golden dunes and sparkling waves. Two hours in, I was knackered but chuffed – that proper fresh-air high.

Next morning? Not so much. The sky turned proper moody overnight, and I woke to rain lashing the windows like it had a personal grudge. Undeterred, I rugged up in waterproofs and trudged out anyway. The path to Langstone Rock was a slog – mud sucking at my boots, wind whipping my hood off every two minutes. I laughed at myself halfway, soaked to the skin and questioning my life choices. Why do we Brits do this? Pretend a bit of drizzle won’t stop us? But there’s something magic about it – the dramatic crash of waves on the rocks, the empty expanse of beach stretching out. I sheltered in a cove, munching a soggy sandwich, reflecting on how these daft adventures remind you to slow down. No Instagram perfection, just me, the storm, and a quiet sense of contentment.

By afternoon, the clouds parted just enough for a gentle wander around the Warren’s nature reserve paths – reed beds alive with birdsong, the odd rabbit darting off. Weather kept flipping like a bad coin toss: sun one minute, hail the next. It forced me to adapt – shorter loops when it poured, longer jaunts when it cleared. One evening, a sneaky sunset hike along the cliffs capped it off, painting everything orange over the sea.

Those walks were the holiday’s heartbeat. They turned potential washouts into stories, and left me fitter, happier, and plotting the next rainy ramble. Devon, you legend – I’m already counting down the days.