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 spontaneous weekend away, me and my other half, packing the car with enough cheese and crackers to feed a small army. But as we queued at Lymington, the heavens opened, and by the time we boarded the Wightlink ferry, I was wrestling with a rogue picnic bag that decided to explode all over the deck. Sandwiches everywhere! Laughing through the chaos, we finally chugged across the Solent, and there it was – Yarmouth’s coastline unfolding like a proper postcard, all shingle beaches and that moody sea stretching towards the mainland. My heart lifted; this was going to be spot on.

Pulling up to our beachfront cottage apartment in Yarmouth, I was buzzing with that arrival anticipation – you know, when everything feels like it’s about to click. It’s this cosy converted old boathouse, upper floor with a loft-style bedroom and those mad panoramic views across the water. Downstairs, the open-plan living space is all rustic warmth, perfect for flopping on the sofa with a cuppa, plotting the day’s eats. Step out the patio doors onto the shingle, and you’re right there with the Solent’s dramatic waves crashing – ideal for a romantic wander, though we mostly used it for sunset GandTs.

Food was the absolute star of our stay, as it always is for me. First morning, I fancied playing chef in that cracking little kitchen. Nipped down to Yarmouth’s high street market – it’s tiny but brilliant, with stalls heaving fresh local crab, plump tomatoes from island growers, and wheels of Isle of Wight Blue cheese that could make you weak at the knees. Grabbed some mackerel straight off the boat, a loaf of proper granary bread, and a punnet of strawberries that tasted like summer. Back at the cottage, I attempted a seaside fry-up: grilled mackerel with herby new potatoes. Disaster struck when I overdid the garlic – it was like eating a vampire repellent! We chuckled over it on the patio, waves lapping, vowing to stick to takeaways next time.

Evenings called for pubs, naturally. The Wheatsheaf, just a stroll along the beach, became our local. Proper Isle of Wight grub there – think beer-battered cod fresh from Yarmouth’s harbour, chips fat and fluffy, mushy peas on the side. We hoovered it down with a pint of Goddards lager, brewed right here on the island. Another night, we ambled to the Bugle Inn, where the specials board had slow-cooked pork belly from local farms, all sticky and tender with apple sauce. Portions were massive; I waddled home reflecting on how I’ve turned holidays into eating marathons. Am I padding out for winter, or just living my best life? Probably both.

One highlight was a picnic on the patio – crab salad I actually nailed this time, using market picks, washed down with fizz as the sun dipped over the Solent. No fancy restaurants needed; Yarmouth’s all about that simple, sea-salted goodness. We left fuller, happier, and already plotting a return for more of the same. If you’re after a foodie escape with waves on tap, this is your spot.