I’ll never forget the drive down to North Devon – we’d piled into the car in Bristol with high hopes for a cracking family getaway, only for the sat-nav to chuck us into the back of beyond near Braunton. A cheeky little road closure had us rerouting through some narrow lanes that felt more like tractor tracks, and wouldn’t you know it, we ended up with a puncture from dodging a rogue pothole. Half an hour later, sorted by a passing farmer with a spare jack and a cheery wave, we rolled into the village proper, hearts sinking a tad at the gathering clouds but buzzing with that proper holiday anticipation. What a relief when we pulled up to this grand detached cottage – six bedrooms, tucked away in the most stunning spot amid Braunton’s rolling beauty. First impressions? Spot on. It screamed perfect base for our big family catch-up, with that massive breakfast kitchen kitted out like a dream: double ovens, hobs galore, coffee machine purring away, and even a sofa and telly for the cook’s tea break. Patio doors flung open to a cracking outdoor patio with picnic benches and a games room – table football and darts ready for post-hike showdowns.

We’d planned epic walks from the off, fingers crossed for North Devon’s famed coastal paths. Day one dawned bright, so off we trotted to the nearby Burrows, that massive dune system just a stroll from the cottage. Golden sands stretched forever, marram grass whipping our legs as we clambered up for views over the Atlantic that proper took your breath away. The kids raced ahead, turning it into a treasure hunt for shells, while us adults pretended we weren’t knackered by the soft sand. Picnicked on pasties from the village shop – classic. British weather being what it is, though, day two threw a curveball. Sheets of rain lashed down as we eyed the path to Braunton Marshes, a wetland wonderland teeming with birds. Sod’s law – we layered up in waterproofs anyway, slipping and giggling our way along muddy trails, spotting egrets and hearing curlews calling. It was grim at first, faces dripping, but that fresh, earthy smell after rain? Magic. We hunkered under a tree for flask tea, laughing about how we Brits turn weather into an event.

By day three, the sun cheekily peeked out, so we pushed on to the Tarka Trail section nearby – flat, easy paths winding through woods and meadows, perfect for a gentle amble. Spotted roe deer darting off, and the air hummed with butterflies. But come afternoon, fog rolled in thick from the coast, turning our planned clifftop loop into a cautious plod back via village lanes. No drama, just that adaptable holiday vibe. One evening, rain confined us indoors, so we rustled up a massive brunch buffet in the kitchen – sausages sizzling, eggs frying, everyone piling plates high before spilling out to the covered patio for darts (I lost spectacularly to my niece, naturally).

Looking back, those weather-whipped walks were the highlight – the good days with sea breezes filling our lungs, the bad ones forcing us closer, chatting properly as a family. North Devon’s paths, right on our doorstep, showed us beauty in every mood. Proper tonic for the soul. Can’t wait to go back.