I’ll never forget the drive down to Devon – we’d packed the car to the gills with crisps, wine, and enough board games to last a nuclear winter, only for the sat-nav to chuck us into a massive traffic jam just past Exeter. Picture this: me, swearing under my breath at a lorry that wouldn’t budge, while my other half fiddles with the radio, landing on some godawful pop song that’s basically just autotune and regret. An hour lost, tempers frayed, but honestly, it was the perfect comedy of errors to kick off our little getaway. By the time we turned off the A379 towards Stokenham, the sun was dipping low, painting the rolling fields gold, and I could feel that holiday buzz kicking in – you know, that giddy anticipation of kicking off your shoes and pretending the world doesn’t exist.

Pulling up to the cottage, my first thought was, “Blimey, this is proper idyllic.” It’s one of those classic South Hams farm conversions – cosy, low-set with a thatched roof that screams “welcome to proper countryside living,” and a garden that tumbled down towards open fields. We tumbled out, bags everywhere, and the fresh sea-tanged air hit us like a tonic. Inside, it was all homely charm: a wood-burner begging to be lit, squishy sofas, and a kitchen that looked made for lazy suppers. Great first impressions? Understatement of the year.

We’d come for a proper chilled couple’s break, no kids or chaos (well, apart from us), just simple pleasures and a bit of cottage life mayhem. First morning, I burnt the toast spectacularly – black as my soul after that drive – but we laughed it off with mugs of tea on the patio, watching cows mooch about in the distance. A gentle stroll down to Start Bay Beach was next; it’s only a short hop away, and those pebble shores with the waves lapping in felt like our private slice of heaven. We pottered along, skimmed stones (I’m rubbish, naturally), and flopped on a rug with pasties from the local shop in Stokenham village. Pure bliss, that – salty breeze, no emails pinging, just us being daft.

Afternoons blurred into exploring the nearby lanes, popping into Beesands for fish and chips wrapped in paper, eaten on a bench overlooking the sea. One evening, we tried our hand at a pub quiz in the local at Stokenham – came last, but the pints of bitter and banter made it a win. There was this one hilarious moment when I got tangled in the washing line while hanging out beach towels; ended up flat on my bum in the grass, other half in stitches. Cottage chaos at its finest.

Reflecting on it now, as we packed up on the last day, I realised how much I needed this. Life back home’s a whirlwind of deadlines and drudgery, but here, amid the wonky doors and unexpected cow moos at dawn, we rediscovered that easy rhythm – just pottering, chatting rubbish, holding hands on walks. Devon’s got this magic for stripping things back to what matters: good food, better company, and a fair bit of gentle faffing about. We’re already plotting a return.