I’ll never forget the drive to No.9 The Vista in Woolacombe – a proper faff from the start. We’d set off from Bristol early doors, me behind the wheel of our battered old Fiesta, sat-nav chirping away like it owned the road. Devon’s lanes are narrow as a pin, twisting through hedgerows thick with summer blooms, and about halfway in, disaster struck. I’d packed the boot like a Tetris pro – cool box wedged atop suitcases – but hitting a sneaky pothole near Braunton sent the lot tumbling. Yoghurts splattered across the spare wellies, and my other half, Jen, let out a yelp as a rogue cucumber rolled under her seat. “You’ve turned us into a mobile greengrocer!” she laughed, while I pulled over, swearing under my breath at the mud-splattered chaos. Classic me, always overpacking for a three-day jaunt.

By the time we trundled into Mortehoe, proper frazzled and an hour late, the sun was dipping low over the North Devon coast. Woolacombe’s that perfect pocket of paradise – golden sands stretching out like a postcard, backed by those rugged dunes you dream of. No.9 The Vista sits in Willingcott, just a hop from the beach, and pulling up to it felt like stumbling into a hug. It’s one of those classic seaside cottages, all whitewashed charm with a pitched roof and flower baskets spilling geraniums. The estate agent was waiting, key in hand, and as she handed it over with a cheery “Welcome home!”, I could’ve wept with relief.

Stepping inside was pure magic. The living room hit us first – a cosy nook with a wood-burner (not lit yet, mind, but promising roasty evenings), squishy sofas in seaside blues, and windows framing the sea like a living painting. You could hear the waves crashing faintly, that rhythmic whoosh that instantly melts stress. Kitchen was a dream: granite worktops, a proper Aga humming away, and a retro toaster that begged for crumpets. We dumped our bags and cracked open a bottle of Devon cider we’d nabbed from a farm shop en route – sharp, bubbly, just the ticket after our vehicular debacle.

First impressions? Blimey, it was love at first sight. We wandered out to the patio, gin in hand, and there it was: panoramic views across Woolacombe Bay, cliffs glowing pink in the sunset. Barbecue area primed for sausages, a smattering of garden furniture, and not a whiff of traffic – just gulls wheeling overhead. Jen plonked down with a sigh, toes in the grass, and said, “This is it, innit? Proper escape.” I nodded, feeling a rare pang of quiet reflection. Back home, life’s a treadmill of deadlines and doom-scrolling; here, in this unassuming cottage, everything slowed. That morning’s mishap? Already a funny story, a reminder not to sweat the small stuff. I’m the sort who frets over packing lists, but No.9 whispered, “Chill, mate – you’re on holiday.”

We didn’t venture far that eve – just ambled down to Willingcott Beach, a stone’s throw away, kicking off shoes on the cool sand. The tide was out, exposing rock pools glittering with crabs, and the air smelled of salt and freedom. Back at the cottage, we rustled up fish and chips from the village (proper cod, not that haddock nonsense), scoffing them on the terrace as stars popped out. The bedrooms upstairs? Divine – king-size beds piled with duck-down duvets, crisp white linens, and those same sea views to wake up to. Ours had an en-suite with a rainfall shower that pummelled away the drive’s grime.

Honestly, from that chaotic arrival to sinking into the sofa with the sea symphony outside, No.9 The Vista nailed it. It’s the kind of place that wraps you up, mishaps and all, and makes you grateful for the simple joy of a cracking view and a comfy perch. If Devon’s calling, this is your spot – chaos optional.