I’ll never forget the drive down to North Devon – rain lashing the windscreen like it had a personal grudge, and then, just past Barnstaple, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us down a narrow lane that barely qualified as a road. We ended up wedged between two hedges, laughing our heads off as I reversed us out with all the grace of a reversing elephant. But oh, what a payoff when we finally rolled up to this cracking holiday home in Woolacombe. From the moment we stepped inside, it felt like a hug – that open-plan living space with its double-height ceiling drawing you in, sliding doors flung wide to a decked terrace complete with an outdoor dining set and a bubbling electric hot tub. Four bedrooms sorted us perfectly – kings for the parents, twins for the kids that we zipped into super kings – all with plush beds and luxury bathrooms that made you want to linger. Smart TV and streaming gadgets for rainy evenings, but honestly, who needed them with views like that?

I’d been buzzing with anticipation on the journey, picturing lazy beach days, but this place exceeded every expectation. It’s all about that effortless luxury for unwinding by the coast. First morning, we fired up the hot tub with coffees in hand, gazing out over the sea, and I thought, “This is it – proper escapism.” But the real magic? Getting properly lost. We’re not ones for crowded spots; give me a hidden gem any day. That first afternoon, instead of heading straight to the main beach, we wandered off down a unmarked coastal path from the property – no signs, just a sheep track that petered out into dunes. Stumbled on this secret cove, barely a handful of people, with rock pools teeming with crabs and anemones. The kids spent hours poking about, and I had a quiet moment reflecting on how we grown-ups overplan everything – sometimes you just need to let the path lead you.

Next day, we piled into the car for a mooch around Mortehoe, but took a wrong turn onto a single-track lane that climbed up behind the village. Ended up at this forgotten clifftop nook, wildflowers everywhere, with views down to empty stretches of golden sand. Picnicked there with pasties from a tiny Woolacombe bakery we’d spotted by chance – flaky, steaming, proper job. Felt like we’d gatecrashed paradise. Evenings, we’d grill on the terrace, hot tub steaming under the stars, swapping tales of our accidental finds. One evening, a wrong turn down towards Willingcott led us to a secluded valley walk – heather and gorse buzzing with bees, ending at a pebbly beach where the waves crashed like they were showing off just for us. I sat there, toes in the stones, chuckling at myself: back home I’m all schedules and to-do lists, but here, getting lost unlocked this childlike joy I’d forgotten about.

By the end of the week, we’d mapped our own off-the-grid trail of treasures – no tourist traps, just those serendipitous spots that make North Devon sing. If you’re after dreamy coastal vibes without the hordes, this is your spot. We left buzzing, already plotting the next “lost” adventure.