I’ll never forget the drive over to the Isle of Wight for our little holiday – we hopped on the ferry from Portsmouth, but halfway across the Solent, the heavens opened and we got absolutely soaked just queuing for the car deck. Typical British summer, eh? Still, by the time we rolled off at Fishbourne and wound our way east to Bembridge, the sun was peeking out, and I was buzzing with that proper holiday anticipation – you know, visions of cream teas and not having to cook every night.

Pulling up to the chalet-style holiday property felt like a win straight away. It’s one of those cosy, self-catering spots with a lived-in charm, perfect for a family of four like ours – decked out simply but with everything you need, including a cracking little kitchen that became our command centre for the week.

First order of business? Food, obviously. We’d stocked up on basics from the Co-op in Bembridge village, just a short stroll away, grabbing local sausages, fresh veg, and a block of Isle of Wight cheese that’s got this tangy kick. Dinner that night was my heroic attempt at a full English fry-up, though I slightly overdid the black pudding and it turned into a charred brick. The kids laughed, my partner rolled her eyes, and we ended up demolishing it with ketchup anyway. Proper bonding, that.

Next morning, we wandered down to Bembridge Harbour for their little market – it’s not massive, but blimey, the stalls were heaving with goodies. I snaffled some smoked mackerel from a fisher bloke who swore it was caught that dawn, plus crusty loaves and pots of local crab pâté. Lunch was a picnic on the beach at Culver Cliff, feet in the sand, scoffing it all while watching the paragliders. Heaven.

Evenings were pub time, and we hit the Crab and Lobster Inn right by the harbour – classic seaside boozer with outdoor tables overlooking the boats. Their fish and chips are legendary; the batter so crisp it shattered like glass, and portions big enough to feed a small army. I went for the scampi, golden and juicy, washed down with a pint of Goddards ale, brewed just down the road in Ryde. We chatted with locals about the best spots for crab fishing – turns out you can borrow pots from the pub if you’re brave enough.

Midweek, I got ambitious in the chalet kitchen, trying to recreate a ploughman’s from market finds: hunks of cheddar, pickled onions, and apple chutney that was so vinegary it made my eyes water. Disaster? Nah, triumph – we paired it with a bottle of rosé and called it gourmet. Made me reflect a bit, actually; back home I’m always rushing meals, but here, faffing about with food felt like the whole point. Slowed me down, reminded me why we do these trips.

Last night, we treated ourselves at the Lifeboat Inn, another gem in Bembridge with views across the Solent. Seafood platter for two – prawns, oysters, dressed crab – fresh as you like, and not a dodgy prawn in sight. We waddled home stuffed, vowing to walk it off the next day.

All in, it was a week of proper nosh, daft cooking fails, and pub crawls on foot. If you’re after a holiday where the eats steal the show, get yourself to Bembridge. We’re already plotting the return.