I’ll never forget the drive down to Woolacombe for my three-day jaunt at No.8 The Vista – a proper Devon mishap set the tone right from the off. I’d packed the car with enough pasties and crisps to siege a castle, only to realise halfway through Barnstaple that I’d left my favourite walking boots behind in London. Typical me, innit? No bother, though – I figured I’d cobble something together with my wellies and embrace the soggy charm of North Devon. The sat-nav was having none of it, mind you, insisting on the scenic route via twisty lanes that hugged the cliffs like a clingy ex. By the time I crested the hill towards Willingcott, the sea was winking at me through the dunes, and there she was: No.8 The Vista, perched like a cheeky postcard in a row of whitewashed cottages, all sea views and promise.

Pulling up, I was gobsmacked. The place is a hidden gem in itself – tucked away in Willingcott, just a hop from Woolacombe beach but feeling worlds away from the surf schools and chip vans. I fumbled the key under the flowerpot (classic cottage vibes), and stepped into this light-flooded haven. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the endless Atlantic, waves crashing like they were auditioning for a Bond film. The living room was cosy as your nan’s front parlour – squishy sofas, a wood burner begging for a chilly evening, and a kitchen kitted out with everything from cafetière to wok. Upstairs, the bedrooms were a dream: mine had a bed you could sink into like dough, and an en-suite that didn’t skimp on the hot water. First impressions? Bloody luxury without the pretension. I dumped my bags, cracked open a tin of local ale from the fridge (cheers, welcome hamper), and just stood there, grinning like an idiot at the view. Morte Point jutted out defiantly, and I thought, “Right, this is where I get properly lost.”

That first afternoon, I ditched the map entirely – the real joy of Devon is stumbling on its secrets. Wandering from the cottage, I veered off the main path towards Willingcott Valley, where the gorse bushes whispered conspiratorially. Ten minutes in, and I’d found a tucked-away cove you wouldn’t spot on Google – a sliver of sand called Barricane Beach, proper smugglers’ territory with its rock pools teeming with anemones and crabs scuttling like they owned the place. No crowds, just me, a thermos of tea, and the thrill of discovery. I paddled in the shallows, wellies half-filled with seawater (told you they’d come in handy), laughing at how the waves tried to nick my socks. It was one of those moments that sneak up on you – pure, unfiltered bliss, far from the Instagram hordes on Woolacombe’s main stretch.

As the sun dipped, painting the vista in pinks and golds, I mooched back via a sheep-nibbled track that spat me out near the cottage. Dinner was a faff-free affair: fresh mackerel from the local shop, grilled with lemon while I watched seals bob offshore. Sat on the balcony with the sea breeze ruffling my hair, I had a proper moment of reflection. Life in the city’s a treadmill, innit? Chasing deadlines, scrolling feeds. Here, getting lost wasn’t a mistake – it was the point. No.8 The Vista isn’t just a stay; it’s a portal to Devon’s off-the-beaten-path magic, those accidental finds that make you feel alive. By bedtime, boots drying by the radiator, I was already plotting tomorrow’s aimless ramble. If you fancy ditching the ordinary, this is your spot – mishaps and all.