I’ll never forget the drive down to Dymchurch – sat nav had me convinced I was heading the right way until I ended up in a queue of caravans crawling along the A259, with a sudden downpour turning the windscreen into a blurry mess. Classic me, forgetting to pack the screenwash, so there I was, squinting like a pensioner at the bingo, heart racing a bit as I finally spotted the seafront signs. But honestly, pulling up to this beachfront spot lifted the mood instantly. Second-floor apartment, all sleek and modern, right on the golden sands – first impressions? Spot on. Balcony views over the waves had me grinning like an idiot before I’d even unpacked.

We’d planned a proper foodie holiday, you see, nothing fancy, just soaking up Kent’s seaside grub without the tourist traps. First evening, I faffed about in the well-equipped kitchen – two cracking double bedrooms meant we weren’t tripping over each other, one with its own en-suite shower that felt like a cheeky treat after the drive. Dug out some local sausages from the nearby Spar (five-minute wander), attempted a fry-up with eggs from a farm stall we’d clocked on the way. Disaster? Nearly. Overdid the onions, filled the place with smoke, and set off the alarm. Laughing our heads off, we salvaged it with doorstep toast and a cheeky bottle of Kentish ale from the fridge. Sat on the balcony as the sun dipped, munching away – pure bliss, that salty sea air mixing with the grub.

Next morning, straight down to the beach for a stroll, then into the village for the real action. Dymchurch has this brilliant little market on Thursdays – seasonal veg, fresh crab from the Romney Marsh fishermen, and those fat, juicy strawberries that taste like summer. Grabbed a punnet, some bread, and cheeses that proper melted on the tongue. Back at the flat, I fancied myself as a chef: crab salad with lemon from the corner shop, chucked in some herbs I’d optimistically bought. Turned out half decent, if I say so myself – though the boyfriend reckoned it was the view doing the heavy lifting.

Evenings were pub central. The Dymchurch Royal British Legion, just a hop away, does the best fish and chips – batter so crisp it crunched like walking on shingle, mushy peas on the side, and a pint of Harvey’s pulled just right. We went twice, chatting with locals about the best spots for cockles. Then there’s the Red Cow, a cosy boozer with homemade pies that could convert a vegan – steak and ale, flaky pastry, served with chips that didn’t need ketchup. One night, after a failed paella attempt (too much garlic, lesson learned), we stumbled there for pudding: sticky toffee with custard thick enough to stand a spoon in.

Reflecting on it now, holidays like this remind me to slow down – no posh restaurants, just markets, pubs, and kitchen cock-ups that taste better for the stories. Left with a belly full of Kentish treats and a promise to return for more beachside feasts. Couldn’t recommend it enough.