I’ll never forget the drive down to north Devon last month – me behind the wheel of our trusty old estate car, packed to the gills with kids, dogs and enough crisps to last a siege. We’d set off from Bristol full of beans, but about an hour in, disaster struck: a rogue pheasant decided to play chicken with the windscreen. No harm done to us, but the poor bird left its mark, and we pulled over for a frantic five-minute clean-up with wet wipes and a lot of laughter. “Welcome to the countryside,” I quipped to the family, trying to sound philosophical as rain started spitting on the glass.

By the time we trundled into that stunning spot near Combe Martin, the clouds were parting like they’d got the memo. Nestled in rolling countryside with views stretching for miles, this spacious barn conversion felt like a hug from the hills – perfect for our lot of ten, including the two waggy-tailed dogs. Five comfy bedrooms, and that hot tub out back? Pure bliss waiting to happen. First impressions? Spot on. We tumbled out, bags flying, hearts lifting at the fresh air and those endless green vistas. I could already picture the walks ahead.

Day one dawned bright, so we laced up and headed out for what turned out to be the hike of dreams. A gentle path from the door led us along the South West Coast Path – proper Devonian magic, with clifftop gusts whipping our hair and the sea crashing below like it was auditioning for a pirate film. We spotted seals lounging on the rocks near Hunter’s Inn, and the kids raced ahead, turning every gorse bush into a dragon’s lair. Lunch was pasties scoffed on a bench overlooking the Bristol Channel, wind in our faces, feeling utterly alive. “This is why we do it,” I said to my other half, grinning like an idiot.

But oh, the British weather – it’s got a wicked sense of humour, doesn’t it? Next morning, the sky turned biblical. Sheets of rain hammered down, turning our planned cliff-top ramble into a squelchy slog through sodden fields. Mud clung to wellies like treacle, and the dogs looked like they’d been dunked in chocolate. We pivoted sharpish to a low-level loop around the local woods, dodging puddles the size of ponds and laughing at my daft attempts to jump them (spoiler: I failed spectacularly, ending up calf-deep and cursing my coordination). It wasn’t the epic vista we’d craved, but there was something cosy about it – huddling under umbrellas, sharing daft stories, the rain drumming a rhythm on our hoods.

By afternoon, the clouds lifted just enough for another go: a shorter jaunt up to a nearby headland, where rainbow shards pierced the drizzle and the air smelled of wet earth and promise. Back at the barn, we thawed out in the hot tub, steam rising like a victory fog, pints in hand. Those walks, good days and gales alike, were the heartbeat of the trip. They made me pause, mid-stride one misty morning, and think: life’s too short for duvet days when there’s a whole wild world out here, weather and all. We left fitter, muddier and closer, already plotting the next downpour dodge. Devon, you legend – we’ll be back.