We’d only been on the road an hour when the satnav decided we needed a scenic detour through a farmyard, and suddenly there we were, wedged between two very unimpressed sheep and a gate that definitely wasn’t wide enough for our little hatchback. By the time we’d reversed out, laughing like idiots, the sun was already high and the promise of a proper coastal afternoon felt closer than ever.

Coast View sits just above Woolacombe, a short stroll from the sand yet high enough for that unbeatable view across the bay. We tumbled out of the car still chuckling about the sheep, grabbed the keys from the lockbox, and stepped inside to the smell of fresh coffee someone had thoughtfully left. The living room windows framed the sea like a painting, and we couldn’t resist flinging them open straight away, letting in the salt-tinged breeze and the distant sound of waves.

After a quick cuppa on the little patio we laced up our walking boots, maps in pockets, and headed straight out along the South West Coast Path. The trail hugs the cliffs all the way to Morte Point, and on a clear afternoon like this the colours are ridiculous—deep greens of the bracken, bright gorse, and that almost turquoise sea below. We took it easy, stopping every few minutes to watch the surfers bobbing like seals off the beach. Halfway along we spotted a bench perfectly placed for a flask of tea, and we sat there watching a family of choughs wheel overhead, their red beaks flashing in the sun.

Of course, British weather had other ideas. By the time we reached the rocky tip of Morte Point the sky had turned that familiar moody grey, and a soft drizzle began to tickle our faces. We’d planned to carry on toward Bull Point lighthouse, but instead we ducked into a handy hollow in the cliff and watched the rain sweep across the water like a moving curtain. It felt oddly peaceful, sitting there in waterproofs with steam rising from our mugs, chatting about how many times we’ve been caught out like this and still come back for more.

When the shower passed we wandered slowly back, boots squelching, stopping to pick a few blackberries that were just turning sweet. By the time we reached the cottage the sun had returned, throwing long golden light across the garden. We kicked off our muddy shoes on the doorstep and stood for a moment, breathing it all in—the faint roar of the surf, the smell of warm grass, the simple fact that we’d only been here a few hours and already felt completely reset.

Later, with the windows open again and the kettle on, I caught myself thinking how little we’d actually done—just a short walk and a bit of rain—and yet it already felt like the sort of day you remember for ages.