I’ll never forget the drive down to that gorgeous spot near Brampton in Devon – a proper faff from the motorway, with sat-nav taking us on a detour through some cheeky little lanes that had me white-knuckling the wheel. We’d packed the car to the brim with wellies, waterproofs, and enough snacks to feed an army, buzzing with anticipation for a week of proper countryside rambles. But about five miles out, disaster struck: a rogue pheasant decided our windscreen was its personal trampoline. Feathers everywhere, heart in my mouth, but we pulled over, gave it a quick once-over (bird fine, car less so), and carried on laughing. By the time we arrived, the sun was peeking through, and first impressions? Blimey, what a belter. This spacious farmhouse, done up just right for a big group like ours, sat bang in the middle of rolling farmland, promising peace and proper walks from the doorstep.

We were there with mates and family – a right rabble of us – and from the off, it was all about lacing up boots and hitting the trails. Day one, the weather played nice: clear skies, crisp air, perfect for wandering the surrounding fields. We followed a cracking footpath that looped through lush meadows, past babbling streams and those classic Devon hedgerows bursting with blackberries. The views were mint – endless green hills rolling out like a postcard, with buzzards circling overhead. We stopped for a picnic on a grassy knoll, proper smug about our early start, chatting nonsense and soaking it all in. I even managed a rare moment of zen, sitting there thinking how daft it is that we city folk forget how good it feels to just walk and breathe.

But oh, the British weather – it’s got a wicked sense of humour, doesn’t it? Come afternoon, the clouds rolled in like they owned the place, and we got proper soaked on what was meant to be a gentle stroll to a nearby wooded copse. Mud up to our knees, everyone giggling like kids as we slipped and slid back to the farmhouse. No complaints though; it’s character-building, that. Next day, proper dreich – horizontal rain lashing the windows – so we adapted like pros. Donned our best Gore-Tex and tackled a shorter loop along the farm tracks, dodging puddles the size of small lakes. The mist gave everything this moody, magical vibe, like we’d stepped into a Brontë novel. We spotted deer in the distance and wild ponies grazing, which made the chill worthwhile.

By mid-week, the sun was back, and we went for it: a longer hike up to a local viewpoint just a couple of miles off, clambering stiles and chatting about everything and nothing. That evening, nursing blisters by the fire, I had a proper reflective moment – isn’t it funny how a bit of rain-scuppered planning forces you to slow down? No grand itineraries, just us lot pottering about, making memories in the muck. The weather flipped like a coin all week – glorious mornings turning squally, plans shifting from epic treks to cosy ambles – but that’s Devon for you. Left us fitter, happier, and already plotting the next rainy ramble. If you’re after a spot to walk your socks off, this is it.