I’ll never forget the drive down to that tucked-away spot in Devon – what was meant to be a smooth three-hour jaunt from Bristol turned into a comedy of errors thanks to my hopeless sense of direction. Sat nav decided to throw a wobbly just past Tiverton, rerouting us down a single-track lane that felt more like a sheep’s personal runway than a proper road. We ended up in a muddy layby, arguing over whether to trust the phone’s signal or my increasingly desperate map-reading skills. By the time we spotted the right turning towards Chittlehampton, the kids were chanting “are we there yet?” like a broken record, and I’d spilled half my thermos of tea down my shirt. Classic me, turning a simple journey into mild chaos.

But oh, pulling up to the cottage? That first glimpse made every bump worthwhile. Nestled right in the heart of the Devon countryside, this cosy little detached place with its thatched roof and blooming garden hit me like a warm hug. I’d been buzzing with anticipation all week – scrolling through photos of rolling hills and imagining lazy evenings by the fire – and it didn’t disappoint. The gravel crunched under the tyres as we parked, and stepping out, the air was thick with that fresh, earthy scent you only get in proper rural England. Birds chirping, distant lowing of cows – it was like the countryside had rolled out the red carpet, mishaps forgotten.

We tumbled inside, bags everywhere, and the first impressions just kept coming. The open-plan living space was a dream: plump sofas begging to be flopped on, a wood burner already set with kindling (bless the hosts), and a kitchen kitted out with everything from a proper Aga to quirky mugs with Devon slogans. The kids bolted straight for the enclosed garden, whooping at the space to run wild without a care. I paused in the doorway, tea stains and all, feeling a proper pang of self-reflection – when did life get so hectic that I’d forgotten how good it feels to just... arrive somewhere peaceful? No emails pinging, no deadlines; just us, a cracking view of the fields, and the promise of pasties from the local farm shop down the lane.

That afternoon, we shook off the travel gremlins with a gentle wander along the nearby footpaths – nothing too strenuous, just enough to spot a few Dartmoor ponies grazing in the distance and breathe in the wildflowers. Back at the cottage, we cracked open a bottle of local scrumpy (non-alcoholic for the little ones, mind), and rustled up fish and chips from the village pub takeaway. Sat there as the sun dipped behind the hills, golden light flooding the windows, I couldn’t stop grinning. Sure, the arrival was a right faff, but it made those first impressions all the sweeter – a reminder that the best holidays start with a bit of lovely, laughable disorder. If you’re after a proper Devon escape, this is the spot to book. We’re already plotting our return.