I’ll never forget the drive down to Devon – we’d loaded up the car with enough snacks to feed a small army, the dog’s lead dangling from the mirror like a talisman, and set off full of that giddy holiday buzz. But about an hour in, just past Taunton, the heavens opened and we hit a proper downpour. The wipers were going mad, and somehow I took a wrong turn onto a narrow lane that felt more like a sheep track. Cue mild panic as we inched past hedges taller than the car, wondering if we’d end up in someone’s farmyard. Fifteen minutes of “are you sure this is the way?” later, we popped out right on track, laughing it off over soggy crisps. By the time we wound into that peaceful little village, the rain had cleared, leaving everything sparkling like it was rolling out the red carpet.

Pulling up to the cottage, my heart did a little flip – there it was, this cosy stone-fronted beauty tucked into the Devon countryside, all warm windows glowing against the green hills. Set bang in the heart of it all, yet just a short hop from those cracking sandy beaches and the wild Exmoor edges, it screamed proper escape. We stepped inside and whoosh – instant first impressions of pure bliss. Plush sofas begging for a flop, a kitchen that looked made for lazy breakfasts, and out back, our own private hot tub winking under the trees. The views swept right out to the horizon, and with the dog already sniffing every corner like he’d claimed it, we knew we’d struck gold for our chilled-out couple’s break, pup included.

First morning, we cracked open the French press (none of that instant malarkey here) and wandered out for a gentle amble around North Molton. The village is dead quaint – a quick stop at the local shop for pasties and milk, chatting with the chap behind the counter about the best walks nearby. We followed a footpath up through fields dotted with Exmoor ponies, the air so fresh it almost knocked you over. Lunch was a simple picnic by a babbling stream, cheese rolling off crackers as we watched clouds scud by. Back at the cottage, chaos ensued when the dog decided the hot tub cover made a brilliant trampoline – splashes everywhere, us in hysterics trying to fish him out without joining him. “This is holiday life,” I chuckled, towelling him down while my other half topped up our GandTs.

Afternoons melted into pure simple pleasures: firing up the barbecue for local sausages from the farm shop down the lane, then sinking into that steaming hot tub as the sun dipped low, steam rising like fairy smoke. One evening, we drove the short stretch to a nearby beach – think golden sands and waves perfect for a paddle, not a soul in sight bar a few seals bobbing offshore. Splashing about barefoot, building a rubbish sandcastle that the tide claimed in minutes, felt like kids again. No grand plans, just us, the dog shaking seawater everywhere, and that easy rhythm of cottage days.

Reflecting on it now, sat back home with the washing machine humming, I realise it’s these unpolished bits – the wrong turns, the wet dog mayhem, the quiet hot tub soaks – that make a break magical. Devon wrapped us up in its gentle chaos, reminding me to slow down and savour the small stuff. We’re already plotting a return; that countryside hug was too good to leave behind.