I’ll never forget the drive down to North Devon – we’d packed the car to the brim with wellies, waterproofs, and enough crisps to siege a castle, only for the sat-nav to chuck us into a proper Devon lane adventure. About ten miles from Combe Martin, we hit a massive cow jam: a herd plodding along like they owned the road, and our little hatchback sandwiched between them. I was humming along to the radio, picturing crisp coastal paths ahead, when one cheeky beast decided to give our wing mirror a nudge. No damage, thank goodness, but it had us laughing – classic British countryside welcome, innit?

Pulling up to the property, my heart did a little flip. It’s one of those cosy converted barns, all rustic charm with a welcoming vibe that screams “kick off your boots and stay a while.” First impressions? Spot on. The views over the valley towards the sea had us grinning like kids, and after that cow escapade, it felt like we’d earned it.

We’d come for the walks – North Devon’s got some crackers right on the doorstep – and day one delivered in spades. Blue skies, not a cloud in sight (rare as hen’s teeth round here), so we laced up and headed out along the South West Coast Path from Combe Martin beach. It’s a belter of a stretch: rugged cliffs plunging into the sea, gulls wheeling overhead, and that fresh brine in the air. We clambered up to Great Hangman, the highest sea cliff on the path, puffing a bit but proper chuffed with the panoramic views. Stopped for a picnic of cheese pasties nicked from the village shop – wind whipping our hair, but glorious.

Next morning, the weather gods had a chuckle. Grey skies rolled in overnight, and by brekkie it was lashing down. No way were we letting that scupper things; we’re British, we adapt. Swapped the cliff hike for a gentler ramble up the Valley of Rocks – about a mile’s stroll from the barn. It’s wild up there: massive boulders strewn like a giant’s game of conkers, feral goats eyeing us suspiciously, and that eerie, otherworldly feel even in the drizzle. Waterproofs on, hoods up, we splashed through puddles, spotting heather and the odd wild pony. Felt a bit like hobbits on a quest, if I’m honest – me slipping on mud and swearing under my breath (well, almost).

By afternoon, the rain eased to a mizzle, so we nipped over to Hunter’s Inn for a loop through the Heddon Valley. Lush woodland paths hugging the river, ferns brushing our legs, emerging to pebbly beaches where the waves crashed like applause. The weather kept us on our toes – one minute sun, next a squall – but that’s the joy of it. Changed plans on the fly, discovered hidden gems we’d have missed otherwise.

Looking back, those walks were the highlight. There was this quiet moment on a bench overlooking Combe Martin Bay, rain pattering on my hood, thinking how daft it is rushing about life when a good hike sorts your head out. We covered miles, laughed off the soggy socks, and came home buzzing. If you fancy proper fresh air therapy with a side of unpredictable weather, this corner of North Devon’s your spot. Can’t wait to go back.