I’ll never forget the drive down to North Devon last month – a proper faff from the start. We’d packed the car with enough snacks to feed a small army, but halfway through Somerset, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us looping down some tiny B-road that felt more like a goat track. Branches scraping the roof, cows staring us down like we were intruders – I was convinced we’d end up in a field. But then, as we crested the hill into Mortehoe, there it was: Woolacombe Bay stretching out like a postcard, all golden sand and Atlantic rollers. Heart lifted instantly. Whatever, I thought, we’re here for a holiday, not a rally.

Pulling up to the place, my first impressions were spot on. It’s one of those cosy seafront apartments, done up in that classic beachy style – whites and blues, big windows framing the ocean like a living painting. Pets welcome too, which was perfect for our scruffy terrier, Alfie, who immediately claimed the sofa as his throne. We’d been buzzing with arrival anticipation on the motorway, dreaming of pasty shops and surfing, but honestly? The joy was in doing sod all. Proper slowing down.

The first morning, I wandered out to the garden – a lovely little shared spot with the sea crashing just beyond the hedge. It’s one of those places where you can hear the waves lapping without even leaving your chair. I plonked down with a cuppa and the book I’d been meaning to crack open for months (some daft thriller about smugglers – fitting, given the coast). Hours vanished. No agenda, no alarms. Just me, the breeze ruffling the pages, and Alfie snoring beside me. Lunch was a lazy affair: grabbed some fresh scones and clotted cream from the village shop in Mortehoe, less than a mile away, and smeared them on plates back in the garden. Heaven.

Afternoons blurred into the same blissful rhythm. A gentle potter along the beach path to Woolacombe – it’s barely a ten-minute stroll – for a dip in the sea if the mood took us, but mostly we’d flop on the sand with a thermos of tea, watching families build wonky castles. Back at the apartment, it was more reading, maybe a nap on the sun-lounger. One day, I even dozed off mid-chapter, waking up to find a seagull eyeballing my biscuit. Cheeky blighter – made me chuckle.

There was this gentle moment of self-reflection one evening, sat in the garden as the sun dipped low over the bay. I realised I’d spent the whole week without checking my emails once. Work? Miles away. Usually, I’m dashing about like a headless chicken, but here, doing very little felt like the point. It’s restorative, isn’t it? North Devon has this magic for recharging your batteries without you even trying.

We left feeling lighter, promising to return for more of the same. If you fancy proper holiday bliss – lazy days, sea views, and zero guilt about lounging – this corner of Devon’s your spot. Utterly brilliant.