I’d barely made it out of Barnstaple when the first hiccup hit – a rogue sheep decided my little Fiat was its new scratching post, leaving a woolly dent on the door and me laughing like a loon in the middle of the lane. “Welcome to North Devon,” I muttered, giving the beast a gentle nudge back to its field. It was the perfect, insignificant start to my three-day jaunt to Cottage Suite 2 at Kentisbury Grange, just a few miles up the twisty roads towards the coast. The satnav promised 15 minutes, but with those hedgerows closing in and the late afternoon sun playing peekaboo, it felt like a proper adventure already.

Pulling up to the cottage around teatime, I was chuffed to bits. Tucked into the grounds of Kentisbury Grange, it’s one of those cosy stone suites that screams “get away from it all” without being pretentious. My spot, Suite 2, had a cheeky private patio overlooking rolling fields, with French doors begging to be flung open. Inside, it was all beams, a squishy sofa, and a kitchenette stocked with tea towels and a proper kettle – none of your flimsy hotel nonsense. First impressions? Bliss. I dumped my bags, brewed a cuppa, and stepped out to breathe in that briny North Devon air, already plotting tomorrow’s hikes.

Day one proper kicked off with blue skies mocking the Met Office’s dire warnings. I laced up my boots for a wander along the nearby lanes towards Kentisbury Down, that lush bit of Exmoor fringe just a stone’s throw away. The paths were alive with gorse buzzing with bees and views stretching to the Bristol Channel – proper postcard stuff. I reckon I clocked five miles, puffing up gentle slopes, spotting a few wild ponies eyeing me suspiciously. Lunch was a pork pie from my rucksack, munched on a drystone wall, feeling like a right explorer. British weather, though? It’s got a wicked sense of humour. By mid-afternoon, the clouds rolled in like uninvited guests, turning my sunny stroll into a mizzle-soaked scamper back to the cottage. I arrived dripping, chuckling at my sodden socks, and cranked the heating while toasting crumpets. Plan A – extend to the coastal path at Hunter’s Inn – scuppered, but hey, nothing beats a rainy day cosied up with a book and the patter on the roof.

Next morning, I woke to a gale rattling the windows, the kind that makes you question your life choices. Undeterred, I layered up for a shorter loop around the grange estate itself – muddy tracks winding through woods and pastures, alive with birdsong and the odd curious cow. The wind whipped my hood off at every turn, but those first impressions of the area stuck: wild, unpolished, and utterly invigorating. Halfway round, the rain held off just long enough for a breather at a viewpoint, where I pondered how these weather whims force you to slow down. Me, the eternal planner, faffing about with soggy maps – it was a gentle nudge that holidays aren’t about ticking boxes, but savouring the squelch underfoot and the unexpected laugh when a puddle engulfs your boot.

By day three, the sun deigned to return, teasing me with a final hike down to the lanes near Lynton’s edge – well, as far as my legs fancied without straying too far. The weather’s flip-flopping had turned my grand coastal treks into intimate, mud-splattered jaunts, but Cottage Suite 2 made it all shine. That patio became my hub, drying boots dangling like trophies. First impressions sealed it: North Devon’s walks are magic, rain or shine, and this little haven is the perfect base for letting the elements call the shots. I drove off with a full heart (and a dented car), already plotting a soggy return.