I’ll never forget the drive to Birch Valleyside – or should I say, the comedy of errors that got me there. I’d set off from Tiverton early on a drizzly Devon morning, sat-nav primed for this glamping gem tucked away in the Mid-Devon countryside. Three days of unwinding in a safari tent sounded idyllic, right? But no, I managed to take a wrong turn down a muddy farm track about five miles out, splattering my little hatchback with enough Devon clay to pass for a rally car. “Brilliant,” I muttered, scraping off the worst of it with a leaf while a pair of curious sheep watched like judgmental neighbours. Classic me – overpacking the boot with crisps, books, and a bottle of scrumpy, only to turn a 20-minute jaunt into a 45-minute farce.

Finally rolling up to Birch Valleyside around lunchtime, I was knackered but buzzing. The place is proper hidden – you wind through lanes lined with those lush, rolling hedges that scream Devon, past the odd thatched cottage and a field of grazing Exmoor ponies. It’s all within spitting distance of Tiverton, mind – no need to venture far for that authentic West Country vibe. As I parked up on the gravel, the first thing that hit me was the quiet. Not just any quiet, but that deep, leafy hush broken only by birdsong and the distant low of cows. The safari tent loomed ahead like something out of a posh camping mag – canvas walls billowing gently in the breeze, perched on a wooden deck with views over a wildflower meadow dipping into a wooded valley. Valleyside indeed.

Stumbling in with my muddy boots (another win for me), I was gobsmacked by the inside. It’s no bog-standard tent, this – think king-sized bed piled high with fluffy duvets, a wood-burning stove already set with kindling, and a proper en-suite with a rainfall shower that could wash away a week’s worth of city stress. The kitchenette had everything: a gas hob, fridge stocked with local milk and eggs (cheers to the hosts for that touch), and even a Nespresso machine for my caffeine fix. I plonked my bag down and cracked open a window – bam, fresh air floods in, scented with pine and earth. Outside, a hammock swayed invitingly, and there was a fire pit ready for evening marshmallows. First impressions? Bloody luxurious. I felt like a explorer who’d accidentally stumbled into five-star territory.

That afternoon, I pottered about the site, shaking off the arrival chaos. A short stroll down the valley path – all brambles and butterflies – led to a babbling brook perfect for dipping my toes. No crowds, no traffic, just me, the water’s gurgle, and a robin giving me the eye. Back at the tent, I fired up the stove (successfully, for once) and rustled up tea and scones from the nearby Grand Western Canal café – a five-minute drive, if you don’t get lost like yours truly. Sat on the deck as the sun broke through, munching away, I couldn’t help but chuckle at my morning mishap. It was the perfect icebreaker to this serene spot.

As the light faded, golden over the hills, I had one of those gentle moments – you know, feet up, scrumpy in hand, reflecting on how we rush about life, chasing the next big thing. Here, in Birch Valleyside’s embrace, arrival felt like arrival proper: messy, real, and utterly restorative. If Devon’s your jam, this is the spot to land – chaos and all. Can’t wait to go back.