I finally made it to Apartment 6 in Hope Cove after what felt like the scenic route from hell – or at least from the A38. We'd piled the family into the car in the drizzle back in Bristol, kids bickering over crisps before we'd even hit Exeter. The sat-nav, bless its cotton socks, decided to take us on a detour through some winding lanes narrower than my waistline after Christmas. Cue the classic mishap: as we trundled past a tractor that filled the entire road, I misjudged a passing place and ended up with the wing mirror kissing a hedgerow. No real damage, just a few leaves stuck in the hinge and my husband rolling his eyes like I'd invented incompetence. "Welcome to Devon driving," he quipped, and we laughed it off as the kids cheered for the free countryside trim.

Pulling into Castle Cove's car park around 4pm, the first proper glimpse of Apartment 6 hit me like a warm hug. Tucked into this little cliffside spot overlooking the cove, it looked every bit the cosy bolthole we'd booked for our three-day breather. Hope Cove's that perfect unpretentious Devon hideaway – a smattering of whitewashed cottages clustered around a horseshoe bay, fishing boats bobbed lazily on the waves, and the air smelled of salt and seaweed with a hint of chip shop vinegar drifting up from the beach. We grabbed our bags (me huffing with the cool box, kids racing ahead like feral puppies) and followed the path down to the entrance. The key turned smoothly in the lock, and there we were: home for the next few days.

Stepping inside, it was pure lodge life charm – compact, lived-in, and screaming "relax here, you daft lot." The open-plan living area had this squishy corner sofa piled with cushions that practically begged you to flop down with a cuppa. A wood burner sat ready for evening chills, though the sun was still peeking through the windows, gilding the sea view. That view! Floor-to-ceiling glass straight onto the pebbly beach below, waves lapping in with that rhythmic Devon hush. Kitchen was a dream for lazy family cooks: granite tops, a proper Aga-esque cooker, and a fridge that hummed contentedly as I stuffed it with local pasties from the village shop. Up the spiral stairs (cue kid giggles at the "pirate ship" vibe), the bedrooms were snug as a bug – our double with a skylight framing the clouds, and the twins' room overlooking the cove where seals sometimes flop about.

First impressions? Blissfully chaotic in the best way. We dumped bags and headed straight out – couldn't resist that five-minute clifftop stroll to the beach. Thurlestone's just a hop away if you fancy posher sands, but Hope Cove's bolthole suited our scruffy vibe. Kids paddled in rock pools teeming with crabs (one nipped my toe, the little sod), while I kicked off my trainers and let the cool pebbles massage my feet. Back for supper, we rustled up fish fingers and beans – nothing fancy, just lodge life magic – with the window cracked to let in the sea breeze. Husband fiddled with the telly while I sipped tea, watching gulls wheel over the waves. Light humour struck when the youngest declared the loo "the throne room" after its sea-view position; we howled till our sides hurt.

That first evening, as the sun dipped behind Bolt Head, painting the sky in bruised purples, I had a quiet moment on the balcony. Sat there with a GandT, listening to the family's chatter inside, I reflected on how these simple spots ground you. Life's mad rush fades when you're this close to the sea's endless whisper – no grand plans, just us, a bit of chaos, and Devon's gentle pull. Apartment 6 nailed it: the ideal launchpad for our relaxed family unwind, mishaps and all. Can't wait for day two's explorations.