I’ll never forget the drive to our little 1 Bed Lodge in Ashwater – a proper faff from the start, but the kind that makes for the best stories. We’d set off from Exeter early Saturday morning, me at the wheel of our battered old Fiesta, sat-nav chirping away like it owned the road. Devon’s lanes are narrow as a pin, flanked by those high hedgerows that block any chance of a scenic view, and about 20 minutes in, disaster struck: a rogue pheasant decided to play chicken right in front of us. I slammed the brakes, swearing under my breath, and the passenger coffee thermos flew off the dashboard, exploding a milky latte all over the gear stick and my lap. “Brilliant,” I muttered to my other half, who was stifling giggles while handing me wet wipes. So there we were, parked on a verge, me mopping up like a drowned rat, the bird long gone unscathed. Typical me – turning a simple hour’s drive into a sitcom episode.

By the time we reached Ashwater, the sun was peeking through the clouds, casting that soft Devon glow over the rolling fields. The lodge is tucked away in this peaceful spot, just a stone’s throw from the village heart – proper rural bliss, with sheep bleating in the distance and not a hint of traffic noise. Pulling up the gravel drive, still sticky from my coffee calamity, I felt the tension melt away. The place is a gem: a cosy one-bed lodge that looks like it’s been plucked from a postcard, all timber cladding and a pitched roof nestled among wildflowers and ancient oaks. We unloaded the car (carefully, no more spillages), and as I fumbled with the keycode at the door – fingers still tacky – it swung open to reveal the warmest welcome.

Stepping inside was like a hug from an old mate. The open-plan living area is compact but spot-on, with a plush sofa begging you to flop down, a wood-burning stove already set with kindling (mental note: light it later for smugness points), and a kitchenette kitted out with everything you’d need for a fry-up. Proper British touches everywhere – a kettle on the go, tea bags galore, and even a pint of local milk in the fridge. The bed through the archway? King-sized heaven, piled high with fluffy duvets and pillows that screamed “sleep for England.” I dumped our bags and immediately brewed a cuppa, peering out the window at the private patio. It’s got this fab hot tub bubbling away under a pergola, surrounded by lanterns – ideal for stargazing, though I reckon we’ll be in there by teatime, coffee mishap forgotten.

First impressions? Bloody marvellous. Wandering the grounds, I spotted a couple of bird feeders twitching with robins and the odd blue tit, and the air smelled of fresh grass and woodsmoke from a neighbour’s chimney. Ashwater itself feels like stepping back in time – a tiny Devon hamlet with a pub down the lane (The Ring of Bells, I’m told, does a cracking pint and pasties), a farm shop for local cheeses, and paths leading to quiet woods perfect for a post-lunch amble. No hordes of tourists here; just us, the wildlife, and that unhurried pace Devon does so well. We cracked open a bottle of Cornish cider on the patio, toasting our chaotic arrival, and I couldn’t help but chuckle at myself. Here I was, a city lad who’d spilled half his breakfast en route, now proper chilled in this idyllic nook. Makes you reflect, doesn’t it? In the rush of life, it’s these simple spots – mishaps and all – that recharge the soul. Can’t wait to settle in proper, but blimey, what a cracking first whack.