I’ll never forget the drive to our holiday cottage in Kentisbury – it was one of those classic British road trips that starts off promising and ends in a comedy of errors. We’d piled into the car in Bristol, full of beans after grabbing pasties from a service station, with the sat nav promising a breezy hour and a half to North Devon. But oh no, halfway there, we hit a proper downpour on the A39, and some numpty in a van decided to aquaplane right across our lane. Cue a heart-in-mouth swerve, a splashy detour through sodden lanes, and me white-knuckling the wheel while the kids in the back cheered like it was a rollercoaster. By the time we trundled into that pretty little village on the edge of Exmoor National Park, we were soaked, late, and laughing about it. Still, pulling up to this stylish home – a proper family bolthole sleeping eight across four bedrooms – my spirits lifted. It looked ever so welcoming, tucked away with a lovely garden and that outdoor hot tub winking at us like a promise of bliss.

First impressions? Spot on. We dumped the bags, cracked open a bottle of fizz, and just soaked in the peace. I’d been buzzing with anticipation all week, imagining lazy days in the Devon countryside, but it was the walking that hooked us from the off. North Devon’s got this rugged magic, especially right there by Exmoor, and with the South West Coast Path practically on the doorstep, we were geared up for proper hikes.

Day one dawned bright, so we laced up and headed out for a stunning stroll along the coastal path towards Combe Martin – about three miles of clifftop drama, with gorse buzzing with bees and the sea crashing below. The views were crackers, all wild Atlantic and heather-strewn hills, and we felt like proper explorers picnicking on pasties at Hangman’s Point. Pure joy, that – the sort of walk that makes you forget the world.

But British weather, eh? It’s got a wicked sense of humour. Next morning, the sky turned biblical – lashing rain and wind that’d strip paint off a barn. Our planned longer trek along the Valley of Rocks got scrubbed; instead, we adapted with a muddy yomp through Kentisbury’s dripping lanes and woodland paths, hoods up, splashing like kids. It was grim at first, boots squelching and me moaning about my socks, but we stumbled on this hidden combe with a roaring stream, and it turned magical. Laughing through chattering teeth, we hot-footed it back for hot tub salvation – steaming away the chill while the rain drummed on the garden pergola. Bliss.

By midweek, the sun peeked out again, teasing us into another coastal jaunt – this time a shorter loop from the cottage, scrambling over rocky bays and peering at seals. The weather flips kept us on our toes, forcing detours into sheltered Exmoor tracks alive with ponies, but it made the holiday. No two walks the same; one minute basking in golden light, the next hunkered down with thermos flasks.

Looking back, sat here now with a cuppa, I reckon that’s the real charm of a North Devon break. Those changeable skies turned potential washouts into unexpected gems, reminding me not to overplan – just grab your wellies and go. We came home fitter, muddier, and closer, with stories to bore the mates with for months. If you’re after a peaceful gang getaway, this corner of Devon’s walks will sort you out, rain or shine.