I’ll never forget the drive down to North Devon last month – what was meant to be a straightforward jaunt from Bristol turned into a comedy of errors. We’d set off bright and early, me at the wheel with the sat-nav bossing us about in its prim voice, but halfway through the motorway, the heavens opened. Proper biblical rain, the kind that turns the M5 into a sloshy river. Then, just as we hit the twisty lanes near Braunton, the windscreen wipers gave up the ghost. Flicker, splat, nothing. I’m peering through the blur like a myopic mole, swearing under my breath (well, almost), while my other half clutches the dashboard yelling “Slow down, you nutter!” We pulled over twice for me to faff with fuses under the bonnet, getting soaked to the skin, and by the time we neared Mortehoe, we were late, frazzled, and questioning our life choices.

But oh, pulling up to the property? That first glimpse wiped the slate clean. It’s one of those dreamy sea-view flats, all cosy and modern with a vibe that screams “relax, you’ve arrived.” Perched right on the edge of Woolacombe, with the ocean stretching out like it’s just waiting for you. We tumbled out of the car, bags flying everywhere, and there it was – floor-to-ceiling windows framing the bay, waves crashing below. I stood there dripping on the doorstep, key in hand, heart doing a little flip. After the road rage, it felt like stepping into a hug from an old mate.

Inside, it was even better. Spotless kitchen with all the gadgets you need for a fry-up, comfy sofas begging for a collapse, and that balcony – blimey, the views! You could see the whole sweep of Woolacombe Beach from there, golden sands and surfers dotting the water even on a grey day. We cracked open a cuppa straight away, watching a pod of dolphins arc through the surf (or was it seals? My eyes were still foggy from the drive). The anticipation on the approach road had been building – those signs for Woolacombe had us buzzing – but this? First impressions were spot-on magical.

We didn’t waste time. A quick change into dry clothes, and we were down the steps to the beach, all of 200 yards away. Woolacombe’s a proper gem – three miles of sand for proper walks, with Barricane Beach just around the corner for rockpooling. I paddled in the shallows, freezing my toes off but grinning like an idiot, while we chucked a frisbee about. Lunch was fish and chips from a beach hut, eaten on the sand with sand in our sandwiches – perfection. Later, we wandered up to Mortehoe’s village pub for a pint, chatting with locals about the best surf spots. No big plans, just ambling.

Looking back, that chaotic arrival was a blessing in disguise. It made the peace hit harder, you know? I’m the sort who packs too much and stresses about traffic, but sat on that balcony at dusk, waves whooshing below, I had a proper moment. Why do we rush life when spots like this are calling? If you’re after a North Devon escape, hunt out one of these cliff-top flats – the drive might test you, but the first hello from the sea makes it all worthwhile. We’re already plotting a return, wipers fixed or not.