I’ll never forget the drive down to North Devon – what should’ve been a straightforward jaunt from Bristol turned into a proper comedy of errors. Sat-nav decided to play silly buggers halfway through, rerouting us down some winding B-road that felt like it hadn’t seen tarmac since the war. Then, just as we crested a hill with those epic views of the Atlantic peeking out, the heavens opened. Rain lashing the windscreen like it had a personal grudge, and me white-knuckling the wheel while my other half fiddled with the boot, convinced the picnic hamper had turned into a swimming pool. We pulled over twice to bail out soggy sandwiches, laughing hysterically because what else can you do? By the time we spotted the turn-off for Mortehoe, I was half-soaked and questioning my life choices, but buzzing with that proper holiday anticipation – you know, the kind where you imagine cracking open a cold one on the balcony, waves crashing below.

Finally rolling up to the place, hearts still racing from the downpour, we were gobsmacked. It’s this cracking little apartment right in the thick of it all, beachy vibes with a modern twist – think comfy sofas begging for a collapse, a kitchen that’s got everything you need without the faff, and massive windows framing Woolacombe Bay like a postcard. First impressions? Absolute gold dust. We dumped the bags, kicked off the wellies, and just stood there, jaws dropped, taking in the sea view. The rain had buggered off as quick as it came, leaving that fresh, salty tang in the air and the sand dunes glowing in the late sun. I felt a proper twit for stressing about the drive – this was worth every puddle.

That first evening set the tone perfectly. We wandered down to the beach, just a stone’s throw away, toes sinking into the cool sand while Baggy Point loomed all dramatic in the distance. Kids were building epic sandcastles, dogs chasing waves like loons – pure magic. Back at the flat, we rustled up fish and chips from a spot nearby (none of that gourmet nonsense, just proper batter-crisp goodness), scoffing it on the balcony as the sun dipped low. I had one of those quiet moments, staring out at the surf, thinking how I’d been grafting too hard lately, nose to the grindstone. Holidays like this? They’re the reset button, aren’t they? Remind you life’s about these simple wins – a cracking view, a full belly, and no alarm clock.

Next morning, we hit the coastal path towards Barricane Beach, that sheltered cove where you sometimes spot seals bobbing about. Light wind, gulls wheeling overhead – couldn’t have scripted it better. Popped into Woolacombe for a cream tea (clotted, obviously, with a scone that was still warm), chatting with locals about the surf conditions. Even managed a gentle stroll along the tide line, picking up bits of sea glass, feeling properly chilled. The apartment made it all effortless – no faffing with check-ins or car parks, just flop down and soak it up.

Looking back, that chaotic arrival was the best icebreaker. Turned what could’ve been a grumbly start into stories we’ll dine out on for years. North Devon’s got that knack – rugged, welcoming, and utterly unpretentious. If you’re after a bolt-hole that feels like home but with sea views thrown in, this is it. Can’t wait to go back.