I finally made it to Hideaway Cabin near Exeter after what felt like the scenic route from hell – or at least from the M5. We'd packed the car with enough snacks to feed a small army (crisps, pork scratchings, and a dodgy flask of tea that had gone cold hours ago), the kids buzzing in the back with their iPads flickering away. But ten minutes from the turn-off, disaster struck: a rogue sheep decided our windscreen was its personal scratching post. No real damage, just a woolly fright and me swearing like a trooper while pulling over to check for dents. The littlest one, five-year-old Ellie, thought it was hilarious – "Mummy hit a fluffy cloud!" – and that set the tone for our three-day jaunt into Devon's cosy cabin chaos.

Pulling up to Hideaway Cabin just as the late afternoon sun dipped behind the rolling hills, I felt that proper "ahh" moment. Tucked away in a quiet spot on the edge of Exeter district, it's the sort of place that screams "get away from it all" without being miles from civilisation. The lane wound through typical Devon farmland – think lush green fields dotted with those sturdy Devon cows chewing the cud – and there it was: this snug wooden cabin, all weathered beams and flower boxes overflowing with late-summer geraniums. No grand entrance, just a gravel drive where we crunched to a halt, bags tumbling out like we'd been on the run.

First impressions? Pure magic with a side of lodge-life lunacy. We unlocked the door (keys hidden under a flowerpot, classic) and stepped into a world of wood-panelled warmth. The open-plan living space hit you straight away – a compact kitchen with a Belfast sink, a wood-burning stove already stocked with kindling, and mismatched armchairs that begged for a collapse. The kids bolted for the bedrooms: two cosy doubles up a short staircase, with low-beamed ceilings that had me stooping like a cartoon character. "Mind your head, love!" I yelped as husband Mark clonked his noggin for the third time. Laughter echoed as we unpacked, Ellie claiming the bottom bunk in the twin room like it was her kingdom.

Stepping out back for that all-important first breather, the private hot tub bubbled invitingly under a pergola, surrounded by a fenced garden that felt like our own little Eden. Devon air, thick with the scent of damp earth and wild honeysuckle, wrapped around us. We fired up the barbecue – nothing fancy, just local sausages from the Exeter farm shop we'd nipped into en route, and some corn on the cob charred to perfection. The sun set in a blaze of orange over the nearby woods, and for a moment, it was bliss. Chaos crept in when Toby, our seven-year-old tornado, knocked over the sauce bottle, splattering Mark's shirt in HP glory. "That's your new tattoo, Dad!" Toby cackled. We hosed him down with giggles, the hot tub calling as reward.

As the stars popped out – proper dark-sky stuff, no light pollution here – I sank into a deckchair with a GandT, kids splashing about. Hideaway's got that effortless charm: fairy lights twinkling along the fence, a hammock swaying gently, and birdsong at dawn that no alarm clock could match. It's not posh; it's real. A bit of creaky floorboards, the faint whiff of woodsmoke, and that satisfying snap as you light the fire. First evening in, toasting marshmallows on sticks whittled from garden twigs, I had one of those quiet reflects: life's mad rush back home in Bristol feels miles away. Here, with the family in fits over sheep mishaps and sauce disasters, it's the simple stuff – a shared laugh, a warm hug by the stove – that recharges the soul. Can't wait to see what tomorrow brings, but this arrival? Spot on.