I’ll never forget the drive over to the Isle of Wight – or rather, the ferry crossing that nearly did me in. We’d splashed out on a last-minute booking for this cracking little studio on a sprawling 50-acre estate near Newport, and I was buzzing with anticipation, imagining lazy mornings with sea views and fresh brews. But no, halfway across the Solent, the waves turned choppy, and I spent the next 20 minutes hugging the loo like an old mate. Green around the gills doesn’t even cover it. Still, as we trundled off the ferry and wound through those lush country lanes, the sight of rolling fields and the estate’s welcoming sign perked me right up. First impressions? Spot on – this cosy studio felt like a proper home from home, tucked into a rural idyll with ponies ambling about, a cracking family restaurant and bar on site, and even playgrounds for the nippers (ours stayed with Nan, mind).

From the off, it was all about the grub. We’d stocked up at Newport’s market on the way in – proper local stuff, you know? Crispy fresh veg, artisan cheeses that could make a bishop weep, and a punnet of Isle of Wight tomatoes so red they glowed. I fancied myself a bit of a chef, unpacking in the studio’s neat little kitchenette, dreaming of whipping up a feast. First night, I attempted a garlic-stuffed roast shoulder from the estate’s farm shop – the lamb was divine, sourced right there from their riding school animals. But my timing was off; the spuds came out like bullets, and the gravy? More like a lumpy potion. We laughed it off over a bottle of local tipple, scraping by with just enough tenderness in the meat to salvage my pride. Gentle nudge to meself: stick to the hob, not the heroics next time.

Next morning, we hit the estate’s restaurant for brekkie – fluffy scrambled eggs on thick toast, smoked back bacon from Wight pigs, and pots of builder’s tea strong enough to stand a spoon in. Proper fuel for mooching. A short hop to Ryde Beach (just six miles), and we parked up for fish and chips from one of those beachfront huts – golden batter, mushy peas on the side, wrapped in paper that steamed just right. Sat on the pebbles, vinegar dripping, watching the donkeys plod by. Heaven. Lunch turned into a pub crawl back near the estate; the family bar there does a mean Ploughman’s with hunks of cheddar, pickled onions, and crusty bread that’s still warm. I overdid the ale – a pint of Goddards, smooth as you like – and spent the afternoon nodding off in a deckchair, belly full.

Evenings were for experimenting again. Snapped up some crab claws from Ryde’s stalls – sweet, fresh from the Solent – and tried my hand at a seafood linguine. The studio’s got all the gear, but I overseasoned it with chilli, turning it into a fiery beast. We polished it off anyway, followed by sticky toffee pud from the restaurant, all oozy caramel and sponge that melts. Reflecting on it now, holidays like this remind me how daft I can be in the kitchen, but there’s joy in the faff. No Michelin stars needed when you’re surrounded by estate views, playground chatter, and Monkey Haven just half a mile off for a post-pud stroll (those cheeky primates eyeing our leftovers).

By week’s end, we’d grazed our way through markets, beach shacks, and that brilliant on-site bar – ham, egg and chips one night, a veggie curry another, always with a cheeky side of banter from the locals. If you’re after a feed-focused break on the Wight, this spot’s a belter. Roll on next time – with less ferry drama, hopefully.