I’ll never forget the drive down to North Devon – a proper British road trip, innit? We piled into the car in the pouring rain from up north, sat-nav confidently directing us along those twisty A-roads. About halfway, disaster struck: a massive pothole sent us veering into a layby with a flat tyre. Me, playing the hero, wrestling with the jack while my other half held the umbrella. Took us an hour, but we laughed it off over emergency service station pasties, arriving just as the sun peeked out. Honestly, that little mishap made the anticipation even sweeter – I was buzzing to see the coast.

Pulling up to our cosy apartment in Bideford, I was chuffed to bits. It had that perfect seaside vibe, all welcoming and snug, right in the heart of things. First impressions? Spot on – sea views from the window, and you could practically smell the salt air. We dumped the bags and headed straight out, eager for a wander.

North Devon’s got this knack for weather that keeps you on your toes, doesn’t it? Day one was glorious – blue skies, warm breeze – so we legged it to the two miles of golden sandy beach just a short stroll from town. Perfect for a paddle in the surf, though I’m no surfer; more of a paddler who ends up soaked and giggling. From there, we joined the South West Coast Path for a cliff-top hike. Blimey, those views! Crashing waves below, gulls wheeling overhead – it felt like we’d stepped into a postcard. We did a good four miles out and back, stopping for fish and chips from a beachside van. Pure bliss.

But oh, the British weather – it’s got a wicked sense of humour. Next morning, the fog rolled in thick as pea soup, turning our planned long coastal trek into a comedy of errors. Visibility nil, so we pivoted to town instead, weaving through Bideford’s independent shops for a rainy mooch. Grabbed a cream tea in a quirky café – scones still warm, clotted cream divine. By afternoon, it cleared just enough for another go at the Coast Path, this time towards Instow. Muddy underfoot after the drizzle, but that made it an adventure. Slipping and sliding, we spotted seals lounging on the rocks, and the fresh post-rain air was invigorating.

One evening, grey skies threatened again, so we shortened our hike to the tennis courts nearby for a laugh – me in wellies, racket in hand, pretending I’m Wimbledon material. Spoiler: I’m not. It forced us to slow down, chat about life over pub grub in one of the local spots. Reflecting on it now, those weather switches were a gift, really. They stopped us charging about like headless chickens and made us savour the moments – the dramatic clouds framing the cliffs, the rain-fresh paths begging to be explored. We even sneaked in a quick loop around the golf course edges at dusk, bats flitting about as the sun dipped.

By week’s end, legs aching but hearts full, I reckon North Devon’s walks are the real magic. Fog, sun, or squalls – it doesn’t matter. Just lace up and go. Can’t wait to go back.