I’ll never forget the drive down to Devon – we’d piled into the car in Bristol full of excitement, sandwiches packed and podcasts queued up, only for me to take a wrong turn just past Exeter and end up on some winding B-road that seemed to go on forever. The satnav was having a right old tantrum, beeping away as we crawled behind a tractor for what felt like miles. Still, by the time we rolled into that quiet corner of South Hams near Modbury, the sun was peeking through, and my heart lifted. I’d been buzzing about this holiday for weeks, imagining lazy days by the coast, but it was the walking that had me most hooked – proper Devon hikes, the kind that promise fresh air and a bit of a leg workout.

The property itself was a cosy converted barn, all low ceilings and welcoming nooks, tucked away in a peaceful spot with views over rolling fields. First impressions? Spot on. We dumped the bags, cracked open a cuppa, and within half an hour, we were laced up and out the door, eager to explore. That first afternoon was pure gold – blue skies, not a cloud in sight, and we followed a footpath straight from the garden down towards the River Yealm. It’s only a couple of miles to the water, but the terrain’s got that gentle undulation that makes you feel alive: lush green meadows, the odd buzzard overhead, and blackberries ripening along the hedges. We picnicked by the estuary, feet dangling in the cool shallows, chatting nonsense and pretending we were proper explorers. I even managed a cheeky nap on the grass afterwards – bliss.

Of course, this is Devon, so the weather’s got a mind of its own. Next morning, we woke to proper mizzle – that fine, persistent drizzle that soaks you before you realise. Undeterred, we headed out for a loop around the local lanes, hoods up and wellies on. It wasn’t glamorous, trudging through muddy gateways and dodging puddles the size of ponds, but there’s something oddly satisfying about it. We stumbled on a hidden woodland path near the village, ferns brushing our knees, the air thick with that earthy petrichor smell. Halfway round, the rain proper bucketed down, turning the track into a stream. We sheltered under a massive oak, laughing at how sodden we were, and I had one of those moments where you think, ‘Blimey, why do I love this so much?’ It’s daft, isn’t it? Back home, I’d moan about a spot of wet, but out here, it just felt… real. A gentle nudge that holidays aren’t about perfection, but rolling with it.

The weather flipped again by afternoon – classic British roulette – and we dashed out for a coastal clifftop stroll over towards Wembury, just a few miles away. Sunshine blazing, waves crashing below, gulls wheeling about. The paths are ace there, rugged enough to feel adventurous but not too hairy, with benches for catching your breath and scanning for seals. We spotted a few bobbing in the bay, which had the kids (well, my other half and I, pretending to be young at heart) whooping like idiots. Legs ached by the end, but what a payoff – sunset views that made the whole soggy saga worthwhile.

By the time we packed up, I was knackered but buzzing. Those walks, rain or shine, stitched the holiday together – a reminder to embrace the lot, mud and all. Devon’s got me hooked; we’re already plotting the next one.