I’ll never forget the drive down to Devon – a proper British road trip, innit? Me and the missus piled into the car in the drizzle back home, Spotify blasting some old indie tunes, dreaming of pasties and sea views. We’d booked The Penthouse in Torcross for a cheeky three-day getaway, nothing fancy, just us, a cosy bolt-hole, and zero alarm clocks. But about 20 miles from the M5, disaster struck: I’d forgotten to fill up the petrol tank. The warning light blinked like a strobe at a naff nightclub, and we limped into a services forecourt on fumes. “Bloody hell, Dave,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You’re 52, not 25.” I laughed it off – a tenner’s worth of unleaded later, we were back on the A38, windows down, salt air teasing us closer to the coast.

By late afternoon, we rolled into Torcross, that sleepy gem on Start Bay where the English Channel crashes against pebble beaches like it’s got a grudge. The Penthouse isn’t some flashy high-rise – it’s a cracking first-floor apartment above a quiet spot, all inviting nooks and sea glimpses from the lounge windows. We parked up, hauled our bags up the stairs (note to self: pack lighter next time), and unlocked the door. Blimey, it was love at first sight. Cosy as a hug from your nan, with plush sofas begging you to flop, a telly for rainy afternoons, and a kitchen kitted out for lazy brekkies – think toaster, kettle, and enough tea bags to sink a ship.

First impressions? Pure bliss. We dumped the bags and beelined for the garden terrace – shared, but ours for the staring. Overlooking the lanes towards the beach, it was the perfect perch for doing sod all. I cracked open a cold one from the offy down the road, she poured a GandT, and we just sat there, watching gulls wheel over the waves. No itinerary, no rush. The joy of it hit me straight away: this was our chance to switch off, proper slow down. Devon does that to you – those rolling South Hams hills, the faint hum of fishing boats, it all whispers “chill out, mate.”

That first evening, we ambled a few hundred yards to the beach. Torcross is tiny, so it’s literally steps away – pebbles crunching underfoot, the sea all moody greys and whites. We didn’t hike or anything daft; just padded along, skimmed a few stones (I’m rubbish at it, naturally), and watched a lone dog chase waves. Back at The Penthouse, we rustled up fish and chips from the local takeaway – proper greasy, vinegar-drenched perfection – and ate on the terrace as the sun dipped. No washing up motivation, so we left it for morning. Curled up on the sofa with a book (mine was some trashy thriller; hers a rom-com paperback), the world outside faded. It felt like we’d been gifted time – real time, not the scroll-and-swipe sort.

Day two dawned misty, but who cares? We embraced the laziness. Breakfast was toast and marmalade, dragged out over an hour of chit-chat about nothing. Then, garden lounging: I dozed in a chair with the paper, she sketched the view. Midday, a gentle wander to Beesands, barely a mile up the coast – that harbour’s a picture, with its clutch of boats bobbing and a café doing cream teas. We nabbed a scone each, slathered in jam and clotted, eaten overlooking the bay. No rushing back; we dawdled, spotting seals offshore. Afternoon? Back to base. Reading, napping, maybe a cuppa. The Penthouse wrapped us in its cosiness – those big windows framing the sea, the soft lighting making everything feel safe and slow.

By day three, I had a proper moment. Sat there in the garden, book forgotten, staring at the horizon, I thought: when did life get so frantic? Work emails, kids’ WhatsApps, the daily grind – it’s exhausting. This place, this nothing-much holiday, reminded me it’s okay to pause. No grand adventures, just the simple joy of being. We left reluctantly, promising to return. If you’re after switching off in Devon, The Penthouse is your spot – pure, unadulterated loafing heaven.