We’d barely got the key in the door of the 3 Bed Cottage in Shanklin when the first of many food-related disasters struck. The sat-nav had insisted the cottage was a straight shot from the ferry, yet somehow we’d ended up doing a full loop of the High Street with a boot full of clinking wine bottles and a packet of sausages that had begun to leak. By the time we finally turned into the little lane behind the beach, the smell of warm pork filled the car like an unwelcome passenger.

Inside, the kitchen was small but perfectly formed, with a fridge just big enough for the rescued baps and a hob that looked like it had seen its fair share of holiday fry-ups. We unpacked in record time, mainly because the sausages demanded immediate attention, and within half an hour we were standing on the patio with mugs of tea and the first proper view of the sea. The tide was out, the sand looked freshly swept, and the only decision left was where to eat that evening.

We settled on the pub at the end of the road, the one with the hanging baskets and the chalkboard promising “proper grub.” It turned out to be exactly what we needed: a corner table, a pint of local ale, and plates of scampi and chips that arrived still sizzling. My partner declared the tartare sauce “life-changing,” which felt like a lot for a Tuesday, but hunger does funny things to people.

The next morning we wandered down to the little Saturday market near the Chine. Stalls offered everything from fresh crab to jars of honey with handwritten labels, and we came away with a crusty loaf, a wedge of Isle of Wight cheese, and a punnet of strawberries that were already threatening to turn. Back at the cottage we attempted what we grandly called a “ploughman’s picnic” on the living-room floor, complete with the fancy napkins we’d brought from home and promptly forgotten to use.

By Sunday we’d grown ambitious. The cottage came with a slow cooker, so we decided on a seafood stew using the crab from the market and a few mussels from the fishmonger on the front. The recipe looked simple enough online, yet somehow we managed to over-salt the broth and under-cook the potatoes. We ate it anyway, sat on the tiny patio as the light faded, and agreed that the view made up for the culinary crimes.

What struck me, once the plates were cleared, was how little we’d actually done beyond eating. Normally a holiday involves ticking off sights and walks, but here the rhythm had been dictated by mealtimes and market stalls. I found myself wondering whether that was the real luxury—not the cottage itself, but the permission to let lunch and dinner shape the day.