I’ll never forget the drive to Forget Me Not Lodge – mainly because I nearly did, thanks to a daft little mishap with my satnav. Picture this: I’m bombing down the A30 from Exeter, windows down, Proper Twelve cider in the cooler (for later, officer), humming along to some BBC Radio Devon folk tunes. Devon’s rolling hills are unfolding like a postcard, all lush green fields dotted with sheep that look suspiciously like they’re judging my driving. Then, out of nowhere, the satnav pipes up: “Turn left in 200 yards.” Left? Onto what looks like a sheep track? I swerve, hit a pothole the size of Dartmoor, and my passenger-side wing mirror decides it’s had enough and flaps goodbye. Classic me – always adding a bit of unplanned excitement to a holiday. Twenty minutes later, after a quick roadside fix with gaffa tape (Devon magic), I’m trundling into Lifton, heart racing but grinning like an idiot.

Pulling up to Forget Me Not Lodge at Roadford Lake, I’m gobsmacked. It’s this cosy little haven, tucked among the four Roadford Lake Lodges, right on the water’s edge. The place is proper quaint – wooden cladding, a veranda begging for cups of tea, and views across the reservoir that make you forget the world. It’s compact but perfect for one, with a wood-burner inside that screams “cosy nights ahead” and a kitchenette stocked for bacon butties. First impressions? Bliss. I dump my bags, brew a builder’s tea, and step out to breathe in that peaty Devon air. The lake’s glassy calm, herons stalking the shallows, and in the distance, the wooded hills of the West Devon countryside. No traffic hum, just birdsong and the odd splash from a fish. I’m here for three days of proper unplugging, and already it feels like I’ve stumbled into a secret.

Day one kicks off with a hike around the Roadford Lake perimeter trail – or so I plan. Weather app says “partly cloudy,” which in British is code for “brace yourself.” I lace up my boots, grab a packed lunch of cheese pasties from the local shop in Lifton (spot on, by the way), and set off clockwise from the lodge. The path’s a dream: easy-going at first, winding through bluebell woods and along the shoreline. Sun’s peeking out, warming my face, and I’m striding like a proper rambler, spotting buzzards overhead and wild ponies grazing the verges. It’s pure Devon – that mix of rugged wildness and gentle beauty. I pause for snaps at the old stone bridge, chuckling at how my gaffa-taped mirror’s reflection looks like a pirate ship in the lake.

Then, classic British weather does its thing. By noon, the sky bruises grey, wind whips up from the reservoir, and rain starts spitting like it’s personally offended. Plan A – full circuit to the bear hides for wildlife spotting – goes out the window. I duck under a massive oak, hood up, laughing at myself as I munch a soggy pasty. “Should’ve packed the brolly,” I mutter, but honestly, it’s brilliant. The rain turns the woods magical, dripping with mist, paths turning to shiny mud slides that have me skidding about like a kid. I pivot to Plan B: a shorter loop back via the permissive paths through the estate woods, dodging puddles and pretending I’m Bear Grylls. Back at the lodge by tea time, drenched but buzzing, I light the wood-burner and dry off with a mug of hot Bovril. First impressions sealed: this place rewards adaptability.

Day two, the weather’s playing nice again – bright spells with fluffy clouds scudding over the lake. Emboldened, I tackle the uphill trail from the lodges towards the reservoir’s north shore. It’s steeper here, rewarding with panoramic views across the water to the tors in the distance. Sunlight dances on the waves, and I’m proper chuffed, spotting otters (or was it logs? Who cares). But by afternoon, clouds roll in thick as clotted cream, thunder rumbling like a grumpy farmer. Hike abbreviated to a woodland wander, ferns brushing my legs, rain pattering on leaves. I shelter in a bird hide, reflecting quietly: isn’t this the point of Devon escapes? Not conquering peaks, but rolling with the elements, letting the weather write the adventure. Makes you appreciate the quiet – no emails, just the rhythm of rain and your own thoughts.

Third morning, a cheeky drizzle again, but I squeeze in a final splash around the lake’s meadow paths, mud up to my knees, before packing up. Forget Me Not Lodge? It lived up to the name – already plotting a return. Devon’s weather whims might’ve shuffled my hikes, but they made the first impressions unforgettable. Cheers to that.