I finally made it to Holly, that cosy little cottage tucked away in the Devon countryside near Winkleigh, after what felt like the most faffing journey of my life. I'd set off from Bristol full of beans, dreaming of cream teas and rolling hills, but no – about halfway down the A30, my sat-nav decided to throw a proper wobbly. It kept rerouting me onto these tiny B-roads that twisted like a drunkard's scribble, and in my haste, I missed the turning for the last village before Winkleigh. Cue a full-on U-turn farce in a layby, with a couple of locals in a Land Rover eyeing me like I'd just landed from Mars. "Are you lost, love?" one shouted, chuckling. I laughed it off, but inside I was cursing – typical me, overpacking the car with crisps and wine only to nearly end up in Cornwall.

By the time I pulled up to Holly just after teatime, the sun was dipping low over the Torridge Valley, painting everything in that golden Devon glow. The cottage is one of those proper chocolate-box jobs – stone walls smothered in ivy, a thatched roof that looks like it's been there since Drake's day, and a front garden bursting with hollyhocks and lavender that hit me with the sweetest scent as I tumbled out of the car. I fumbled the keys from the key safe (another minor drama – my hands were shaking from the drive), and stepped inside, expecting the usual holiday-let mustiness. Blimey, was I wrong. It was like walking into a hug from your nan: flagged stone floors gleaming under the soft glow of fairy lights, a wood-burner already stacked with logs, and a kitchen that screamed "bake your own scones here." The Aga hummed away invitingly, and on the table sat a welcome basket with local apple juice, shortbread, and a note from the owners saying "Make yourself at home – the hens are next door if you fancy fresh eggs tomorrow."

I dumped my bags and proper explored, heart lifting with every step. Upstairs, the bedrooms were a dream – my en-suite one had a bed piled high with fluffy quilts overlooking the garden, where I spotted a cheeky robin having a bath in the bird feeder. The views! Endless fields stretching out, dotted with sheep and the odd tractor chugging along. I cracked open a window, and the air rushed in – pure, peaty Devon magic, laced with wildflowers and distant sea salt from the not-too-far coast. No traffic hum, no neighbourly bin-rattling; just birdsong and the faint low of cattle. It was chaos to calm in about 30 seconds flat.

That first evening, I lit the wood-burner (managing not to set off the smoke alarm, miracle of miracles), cracked a bottle of red, and flopped on the squishy sofa with a cheeseboard I'd rustled up from the fridge goodies. As the flames crackled, I had one of those quiet moments – staring into the fire, thinking how I'd been grinding away at work back home, proper knackered and niggled by life. Here, in this unpretentious nook, everything felt simpler. No emails pinging, no deadlines; just me, a cracking book, and the kind of peace that makes you realise you don't need much to be dead chuffed. The mishap on the road? Forgotten already. Holly had me hooked from the off – if the rest of my three days are half as brilliant as this arrival, I'll be back before you can say "clotted cream."

Wandering the garden at dusk, I met the resident cats – two ginger fluffballs who eyed my pasty suspiciously before curling up on the bench. Stars popped out overhead, sharper than city lights, and I thought, yeah, this is why we do these getaways. Pure, unfiltered bliss. Can't wait to wake up to that sunrise tomorrow.