I’ll never forget the drive down to that gorgeous spot on the edge of Dartmoor – the satnav decided to have a little tantrum just as we hit the A30, sending us on a detour through some narrow lanes that had my knuckles white on the wheel. A classic British road trip mishap, complete with a hedge clipping the wing mirror, but we laughed it off with the windows down and some rubbish radio tunes blaring. By the time we rolled up, the anticipation was buzzing – I’d been dreaming of ditching the daily grind for proper fresh air and no signal faff.

Pulling into the drive of this cracking five-bedroom farmhouse felt like instant holiday magic. It’s the sort of place that wraps you up in luxury without trying too hard – think big enclosed garden begging for a mooch about, and inside, a belter of a kitchen with all the mod cons, from that massive American fridge doling out ice to a breakfast bar perfect for lazy mornings with coffee and toast. First impressions? Spot on. We dumped the bags, cracked open a bottle, and just soaked in the peace, with the River Okement gurgling nearby and Abbeyford Woods whispering promises of adventures.

First full day, the weather gods smiled – bright blue skies, not a cloud in sight. We laced up our boots and headed straight for a stomp along the riverbank path. It’s dead easy from the door, winding through lush meadows and past tinkling streams, with Dartmoor’s tors peeking in the distance. We spotted a few ponies grazing, and the kids went wild pretending they were wild Exmoor beasts. Pushed on to a gentle loop through the woods, about four miles round, clambering over stiles and picnicking by a bubbling brook. Pure bliss, that fresh Devon air filling your lungs till you feel ten feet tall.

But oh, the British weather – it’s got a wicked sense of humour, doesn’t it? Next morning, we woke to lashing rain, the sort that turns paths to slippy mud baths. No way were we letting it scupper plans, so we rugged up in waterproofs and wellies for a shorter yomp along the Okement trails. It was grim at first – horizontal rain stinging our faces, puddles splashing up to our knees – but then the clouds parted just enough for a rainbow arching over the hills. We hunkered down under a tree for sausage rolls (pre-packed from the kitchen, naturally), giggling about looking like drowned rats. Turned into one of those memories you cherish, the kind that reminds you life’s not about perfect plans.

A couple more days brought mixed bags – misty mornings for woodland wanders, spotting deer prints in the damp earth, then a sunny afternoon cracking on a longer five-miler skirting the national park edge, with buzzards wheeling overhead. One evening, as the drizzle set in again, we reflected over dinner at the big table: me admitting I’d been a bit of a grump on that muddy hike, too caught up in staying dry. Holidays like this, with weather flipping the script, force you to adapt and laugh. It’s the walks, good or gnarly, that knit you closer. Left feeling recharged, muddy boots and all – Devon’s got that magic. Can’t wait to go back.