I’ll never forget the drive down to Combe Martin last month – we’d packed the car to the brim with wellies, waterproofs and enough tea bags to last a siege, but about 20 minutes from the turning off the A39, the satnav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us on a scenic detour through some narrow lanes that felt more like goat tracks. Cue mild panic as branches scraped the roof and I gripped the wheel like my life depended on it. But honestly, it built the anticipation perfectly – by the time we crested the hill and spotted the sea, I was buzzing.

Pulling up to this cosy barn conversion, tucked away in a peaceful spot with views over the bay, our first impressions were spot on. It had that welcoming, lived-in charm – think comfy sofas, a cracking Aga for warming up after a damp tramp, and big windows framing the wild North Devon coast. We dumped the bags, cracked open a bottle of local scrumpy, and planned our week of proper leg-stretching walks, come rain or shine.

First day, the weather gods smiled: bright blue skies, not a cloud in sight. We headed straight out for the South West Coast Path from Combe Martin beach, that classic clifftop ramble with sheer drops to the crashing waves below. The air was crisp, gulls wheeling overhead, and we puffed our way up to Great Hangman, the highest sea cliff on the path. Proper exhilarating stuff – I even managed a jog down the last stretch, feeling like a proper adventurer (though my calves begged to differ the next morning). We picnicked on pasties from the village shop, feet dangling over the edge, watching seals bob about. Bliss.

But oh, the British weather – it’s got a wicked sense of humour. Day two dawned with a vengeance: horizontal rain and a wind that could strip paint. Our grand plan for the full Hangman Hill loop? Scrapped. Instead, we layered up and embraced the squelch, tackling the shorter woodland trails behind the village, dodging puddles the size of small lakes. Mud everywhere – I looked like I’d been mud-wrestling by the end, trousers caked up to the knees. Laughing through chattering teeth, we stumbled into a tea room for hot chocolate and scones, dripping on the doormat like a pair of drowned rats. It was grim, but oddly brilliant – those misty views through the trees, the roar of the sea muffled by the downpour, made it feel properly elemental.

Midweek, a sneaky sunny spell lured us back to the coast path towards Hunter’s Inn, weaving through heather-clad hills and ferny valleys. The weather flipped again halfway – spots of rain turning to a full-on deluge – so we hunkered under an overhanging rock, sharing soggy flapjacks and pondering life’s curveballs. That’s when I had a quiet moment: staring out at the stormy Channel, I realised these walks, good or bad, were exactly why we come to Devon. Not Instagram-perfect hikes, but the real deal – the graft, the giggles, the glow afterwards.

By the end of the week, we’d clocked miles of coastal strides, bellies full of clotted cream, and a proper appreciation for checking the forecast (or not). If you fancy ditching the daily grind for some wind-battered wanders, this corner of Devon’s your spot. We’re already plotting a return – next time, with better brollies.