I’ll never forget the drive down to North Devon – we’d packed the car to bursting with cool bags of ingredients for grand cooking plans, only for the sat-nav to chuck us into a massive traffic snarl-up just past Barnstaple. Half an hour of inching along, kids moaning in the back about melting ice lollies, and me fantasising about the seaside fry-up I’d earned. But as we crested the hill towards Woolacombe, the sea sparkling like a promise, all that faded. Spotting the house nestled with those jaw-dropping coastal views, my heart did a little flip – this was going to be proper special.

Pulling up, we were gobsmacked by the place: a beautifully designed home screaming dreamy escapes, with this massive open-plan living, dining, and cooking space under a double-height ceiling that made everything feel airy and alive. Sliding doors flung open to a private decked terrace, complete with an outdoor dining suite and that electric hot tub begging for evening bubbles. Four bedrooms sorted us perfectly – kings for the grown-ups, adaptable twins for the lads – all with plush beds and luxury bathrooms that had us sighing in relief after the road drama. Smart TV and streaming for lazy nights, but honestly, the real star was how it all screamed comfort, luxury, and proper relaxation.

Food drove the whole trip, as it always does for me. First morning, we hit the local Woolacombe beach café for bacon sarnies and steaming mugs of builder’s tea, sand between our toes, watching surfers carve the waves. Back at the house, I fancied myself a MasterChef, firing up that slick kitchen for a roast – stuffed a shoulder of lamb with rosemary from the nearby market, slow-cooked it while we lounged on the terrace with GandTs. Came out a treat, though I did slightly overdo the garlic; the kids pulled faces but scoffed it anyway. Laughing about it later, hot tub fizzing around us, I thought, blimey, when did I last cook without rushing?

Evenings were pub heaven. A short wander to The Woolacombe Bay down by the seafront – proper Devon grub like fresh mackerel from the day’s catch, creamy Dauphinoise, and a pint of local Otter Ale that hit the spot. One night, we tried the fish and chips there, battered hake so crisp it shattered, mushy peas on the side – pure bliss after a day’s bracing walk along the cliffs to Mortehoe. Mornings meant the farmers’ market in the village, grabbing artisan cheeses, plump tomatoes, and pasties from a stall run by a cheery couple who knew every local supplier. I attempted a seafood paella one afternoon, chucking in prawns and chorizo from their fresh haul; it wasn’t quite Valencia, but eaten al fresco on the deck with the sun dipping into the Atlantic, it felt five-star.

Reflecting now, sat here with a cuppa, that holiday was a gentle nudge: life’s too short for rushed takeaways. Amid the feasts and faffed-up recipes, we connected properly – no distractions, just good food, better company, and that unbeatable Devon vibe. Can’t wait to go back and nail the perfect pasty.