I finally made it to Quarry House in West Charleton after what felt like the scenic route from hell – or at least from the M5. We'd piled into the car in the drizzle that morning, me navigating with my phone propped on the dash, the kids bickering over crisps in the back, and my other half promising we'd beat the traffic. Naturally, about five miles from our turning, I took a wrong slip onto a narrow lane that twisted through hedges like a bad dream. We ended up in a muddy farmyard, staring at a flock of unimpressed sheep while the satnav cheerfully announced we'd arrived at our destination. A quick reverse manoeuvre – with me pretending I knew what I was doing – and we were back on track, laughing about it as the sun finally peeked through over the Devon hills.

Pulling up to Quarry House just before teatime was like stumbling into a hug from an old mate. Tucked away in this quiet corner of the South Hams, it's one of those classic stone cottages that screams proper Devon getaway – all wonky beams, low doorways, and a garden that spills down towards the fields. We unloaded the boot in a flurry of wellies and carrier bags, the air thick with that salty tang from the nearby coast. West Charleton's only a stone's throw from here, with its little farm shop where we'd grabbed pasties on the way, and you can practically smell the sea from the doorstep. No grand entrances, just a sturdy wooden gate and a key under the flowerpot, as per the instructions. Bliss.

Stepping inside, the first thing that hit me was the cosiness – that instant "ahh" feeling you get when holiday chaos meets home comforts. The living room's got this massive inglenook fireplace, begging for a log fire later (though we were too knackered to light it straight away), and squashy sofas piled with cushions. The kids – aged eight and ten – immediately claimed the spot by the window, noses pressed against the glass watching rabbits hop about in the twilight. "Mum, it's like a burrow!" my youngest squealed, which set us all off giggling. I love those unscripted kid moments; they're the real magic of a family break.

Wandering through, the kitchen's a dream for lazy lodge life – Aga humming away, flagged floors that don't show the inevitable muddy footprints, and a table big enough for our epic unpacking session. We cracked open the welcome pack (cheers for the local cider and cream tea bits – proper thoughtful), and while I faffed about brewing tea, the other half explored the bedrooms upstairs. Twisty stairs, of course, because nothing in Devon cottages is straightforward. Our room overlooked the garden, with views to the rolling fields and a glimpse of the estuary beyond. Simple, isn't it? But after the drive's minor debacle, sinking into that bed with fresh linen felt like luxury.

Dinner was pure lodge chaos in the best way – fish fingers and chips from the freezer stash we'd brought, eaten round the table with stories flying. The littlest one managed to spill sauce on the rug within minutes, prompting a frantic dab with kitchen roll and much eye-rolling from the adults. "Welcome to family holidays," I muttered, but secretly loving the madness. It's these bits – the spills, the sheep detours, the unexpected cosiness – that remind you life's not about five-star perfection. Staring out at the darkening Devon sky from the conservatory, pint of cider in hand, I had one of those quiet moments: we've got three days of this ahead, no schedules, just us and this brilliant little haven. Quarry House isn't flashy, but blimey, it's got soul. First impressions? Hooked already. Can't wait for tomorrow's beach ramble down at East Charleton.