I finally made it to Hazel Lodge after what felt like the scenic route from hell – or at least from the M5. We'd piled into the car that Friday morning, me, the wife, and our two lads, aged eight and ten, buzzing with that pre-holiday excitement that turns them into human pogo sticks. Devon’s roads are gorgeous, mind, all those rolling hills and hedgerows bursting with wildflowers, but Google Maps decided to throw in a cheeky detour through some tiny lanes barely wider than our estate car. Cue the classic mishap: I misjudged a passing place with a tractor trundling the other way, and ended up with a wing mirror kissing a bramble bush. No real damage, just a few scratches and me muttering about "bloody sat-navs" while the kids howled with laughter from the back. "Dad's turned into a hedge trimmer!" the youngest quipped. Proper family bonding, that.

By early afternoon, we rolled up to Roadford Lake Lodges, just outside Lifton in Torridge. The sign at the entrance promised peace and quiet, and blimey, it delivered. Hazel Lodge sat there like a cosy hug in wood and stone – a proper pet-friendly haven with a veranda overlooking the lake. We parked on the gravel drive, gravel crunching underfoot like we'd arrived at our own little slice of countryside heaven. Unloading was a comedy of errors: suitcases tumbling out, the dog (our mad Labrador, Rufus) bounding ahead like he'd claimed the place already, and the boys racing to explore before I'd even turned off the engine. "This is ours? For three whole days?" they yelled, eyes wide at the hot tub bubbling away on the deck.

Stepping inside, the first impressions hit like a warm embrace. The open-plan living area was compact but spot-on for lodge life – squishy sofas in front of a wood-burning stove (we'd light that later, no doubt), a kitchenette kitted out with everything from cafetière to toaster, and a dining table begging for board games and pasties. The air smelled faintly of pine and fresh linen, and sunlight streamed through the big windows, bouncing off the lake just beyond. Our bedroom was snug, with a super-king bed that promised oblivion after a day of wrangling kids, while the lads' room had bunks that sent them into delirious whoops. "Top bunk's mine!" Cue a minor scuffle, swiftly sorted with promises of ice cream.

We dumped the bags and headed straight out for first impressions proper. The lodge's private veranda was the star – deckchairs arranged just so, with that glassy lake view stretching out, dotted with windsurfers and the odd heron. Rufus flopped down, tongue lolling, utterly content. I cracked open a cold beer from the fridge (stocked with local Devon ales, naturally), while the wife sipped gin and tonic, and we just... sat. The boys dashed down to the shore – it's only a minute's stroll – skimming stones and poking at tadpoles in the shallows. No traffic noise, no schedules, just the lap of water and birdsong. Pure magic.

Of course, lodge life chaos kicked in quick. The hot tub was calling, but filling it led to the youngest slipping on wet decking and landing bum-first in a puddle – tears for two seconds, then giggles all round. We fired up the barbecue (gas, thank goodness, no faffing with charcoal), grilling sausages from the nearby farm shop we'd spotted en route. Dinner was al fresco, paper plates and all, with the sun dipping low over the water, painting everything golden. Sat there munching, watching the lads chase fireflies (or were they glow-worms? Who cares), I had a quiet moment of self-reflection. Life's mad rush back home – deadlines, school runs, the lot – felt a million miles away. Here, in this unpretentious little lodge, it was all about these simple pleasures: family daftness, a cracking view, and zero pressure. Who needs five-star when you've got this?

First evening wrapped with the boys conked out early, Rufus snoring at our feet, and us lingering on the veranda under a blanket of stars. Devon had us hooked from the off – Hazel Lodge, you absolute beaut. Can't wait for day two.