I’ll never forget the drive down to Devon last month – we’d set off from Bristol full of beans, singing along to the radio, only for the sat-nav to chuck us into a massive tailback just past Exeter. Turned out some sheep had decided the A30 was their personal catwalk. We sat there for a good hour, munching crisps and wondering if we’d ever make it. But as we finally wound our way into West Devon, past those rolling hills dotted with tattie fields, the anticipation built. I could practically taste the fresh air already.

Pulling up to the property, a cosy barn conversion nestled in a quiet spot near Tavistock, my first impressions were spot on. It had that perfect welcoming vibe – flower tubs by the door, a sturdy picnic bench out front, and views straight across to the moors. We dumped our bags, brewed a cuppa, and within minutes were laced up and ready to explore on foot. Devon’s calling card is its walking, after all, and this place was smack in the heart of it.

First day, the weather gods smiled: bright blue skies, not a cloud in sight. We headed out for a cracking hike along the nearby Drake’s Trail, that disused railway path winding through woodland and over viaducts. It’s gentle at first, perfect for easing into holiday legs, with buzzards wheeling overhead and wildflowers everywhere. We pushed on towards Gem Bridge, that elegant curve over the River Tavy, stopping for sandwiches with a view that made you forget the traffic jam entirely. Felt like we’d earned every step – about six miles round trip, with a cheeky ice cream in Whitchurch Down on the way back. Bliss.

But oh, the British weather – it’s got a wicked sense of humour. Next morning, we planned a longer tramp across the eastern edges of Dartmoor, aiming for those classic tors with their chunky outcrops. Grey clouds rolled in by breakfast, and halfway up the first slope near Peter Tavy, the heavens opened. Proper Devon mizzle turning to stair rods. We hunkered down under a tree, hoods up, laughing at how sodden we looked, like a pair of drowned rats. Plans shifted sharpish: instead of summiting, we looped back through dripping lanes and over spongy turf, splashing through puddles and spotting ponies huddled in the mist. It was messy, miles of slippery paths that tested the ankles, but there’s something alive about it – the scent of wet earth, the sudden rainbows peeking through. We made it back soaked to the skin, collapsing by the Aga with hot chocolate and biscuits. Best kind of adventure, that.

A couple more days brought the full weather lottery. One glorious afternoon, we wandered the old miners’ tracks around Tavistock, past abandoned wheel pits and along the canal towpath – flat, easy going with history at every turn. Then a windy blusterer forced us onto shorter loops right from the doorstep, clambering stiles and dodging mud. Reflecting on it now, sat here with my cuppa, I reckon that’s the real magic of these stays. You can’t control the skies, but they shape the best stories. No two walks the same, and isn’t that why we go? If you’re after proper Devon rambles from a cracking base, you won’t go far wrong round here. Can’t wait to go back.