I finally made it to No. 2 The Vista in Woolacombe after a bit of a faff on the drive down from Bristol. I'd set off full of beans, playlist blaring some indie tunes, dreaming of coastal paths and fresh sea air. But about halfway through, near Barnstaple, I managed to spill my entire flask of builder's tea all over the passenger seat – classic me, innit? The car smelled like a soggy café for the rest of the journey, and I arrived at the cottage in Mortehoe with damp trousers and a soggy map. Still, pulling up to No. 2 The Vista, that mishap faded fast. Perched on the hillside with those massive windows framing the sea, it looked like a proper gem – all cosy stone exterior, flower tubs nodding in the breeze, and Woolacombe Bay glittering below.

First impressions? Blimey, what a spot. I dumped my bags and cracked open the French doors to the terrace – the view hit me like a tonic. Endless ocean, golden sands curving round, and the faint crash of waves even on a still day. The cottage itself is spot on for a solo wanderer like me: open-plan living with a cracking kitchen (I rustled up a quick bacon sarnie to celebrate), a comfy sofa begging for a cuppa, and upstairs, a bedroom with the sea practically in your lap. No fripperies, just proper North Devon charm – wood burners ready for chillier evenings, though I was banking on hikes, not firesides.

Day one, the weather was playing nice: bright blue skies, a gentle breeze off the Atlantic. I laced up my boots and headed straight out for the classic Woolacombe to Mortehoe clifftop walk – all of about a mile from the door, couldn't be easier. That path hugs the edge, grass whispering underfoot, gulls wheeling overhead. I paused at the bench by the lighthouse, munching a flapjack, feeling like I'd cracked life's code. The views down to the beach were mental – surfers dotting the waves like seals, the tide pulling out to reveal rock pools I'd eye up for tomorrow. Back at the cottage by teatime, I sprawled on the terrace, feet up, watching the sun dip. Pure bliss.

But oh, British weather – never trust it further than you can throw it. Come morning two, I woke to slate-grey skies and a drizzle that turned into proper mizzle. My plan for a longer hike along Barricane Beach cove was scuppered; the paths were turning to mudslides. Chuckling to myself – because what else can you do? – I grabbed my waterproofs and improvised. A shorter loop around Willingcott Valley, sticking to the higher tracks to dodge the worst. The rain pattered on my hood like impatient fingers, but there was something magical about it: the cliffs softened in the mist, wildflowers dripping jewels, and not a soul about. I splashed through puddles, pretending I was on some epic moorland quest, though I did slip once on a slick bit of grass and ended up arse-over-tit in a gorse bush. Laughed my socks off – no harm done, just a few thorns for souvenirs.

By afternoon, the clouds cracked open, sunbeams slicing through like a cheeky promise. Emboldened, I nipped down to Woolacombe Sands for a brisk beach walk – the tide was out, exposing acres of firm sand perfect for striding. Waves lapping my boots, dog walkers nodding hellos, and that fresh ozone tang filling my lungs. Back at No. 2, brewing tea in the sunlit kitchen, I had a quiet moment. Staring out those vista windows, rain-fresh world sparkling, I thought about how these weather whims mirror life a bit – plans go awry, you adapt, and somehow it's richer for it. No grand epiphanies, just a gentle nudge: maybe I'm better at rolling with it than I give myself credit for.

Day three dawned misty but dry, so I squeezed in one last ramble: up to Morte Point for panoramic sweeps over the bay. Wind whipping my hair, heart pumping – perfect bookend to the trip. No. 2 The Vista nailed those first impressions: a hiker's haven where the weather's drama just amps up the adventure. If you're fancying North Devon's wild side, book it – tea stains and all.