I’ll never forget the drive down to North Devon last August – the height of summer, when the sun’s meant to be blazing, but of course, we hit a proper downpour just past Exeter. The A39 was a nightmare, windscreen wipers on full pelt, and me cursing the satnav as it rerouted us through some soggy back lanes near Braunton. We’d left early, buzzing with that holiday anticipation – visions of endless blue skies and crashing waves – but by the time we crested the hill towards Putsborough, the rain had cleared to reveal this golden glow over the sea. Heart lifted instantly.

Pulling up to our splendid apartment, perched right above Putsborough Beach, it felt like we’d stumbled into paradise. Just 150 metres from the sand, it was the perfect hideaway for us four – two cosy bedrooms, everything spotless and welcoming. First impressions? Bloody brilliant (well, almost – apologies for the slip, but you get me). The summer light poured in through the windows, highlighting the sea views that stretched out to Woolacombe’s famous sands merging seamlessly with the gold right below. We dumped the bags and raced down with towels and picnic gear, the heat of the day already building.

That time of year shaped everything, didn’t it? Late summer in North Devon is magic – warm enough for swimming without freezing your bits off, but with that lazy haze that makes you forget the world. We spent mornings bodysurfing the gentle rollers at Putsborough, the water a perfect turquoise under the relentless sun. By afternoon, we’d wander the 1.5 miles to Croyde Bay, grabbing fish and chips from a beachside van, scoffing them while watching proper surfers carve up the waves. The beach was buzzing but not mobbed – families building epic sandcastles, kids with nets hunting crabs in the rock pools left by the low tide. I even had a go on a bodyboard myself, emerging like a drowned rat but grinning ear to ear. Laughing about it now, I must’ve looked a right plonker flailing about.

Evenings were for walkers like us. Lacing up boots, we’d hit the South West Coast Path straight from the door, that golden hour light turning the cliffs into something out of a painting. The summer warmth meant T-shirts and shorts, no layers needed, and we’d puff up to the viewpoint overlooking Saunton Sands, just 3.5 miles off but feeling worlds away. One day, we hired bikes in nearby Georgeham and trundled along the Tarka Trail, the hedges alive with butterflies and the air thick with gorse and salt. Pure bliss, though I’ll admit, cycling back uphill after a cream tea nearly did me in – gentle self-reflection time: maybe lay off the scones next holiday, eh?

Ilfracombe was a cheeky 9-mile jaunt one morning – wait, no, we kept it local, sticking to the coastal gems within easy reach. The season’s vibe meant al fresco suppers on the balcony, watching the sun dip into the Atlantic, BBQs sizzling with local sausages. Sure, there were crowds, but that summer energy made it all electric. North Devon in August? It’s not just a holiday; it’s a reset. We left sunburnt, sandy and utterly content, already plotting a return. If you’re beach-bound or boot-ready, this spot’s your ticket.