I’ll never forget the drive down to Devon last month – we’d packed the car to the brim with cool bags of fresh veg from the local market back home, dreaming of lazy suppers, when the satnav decided to have a midlife crisis just past Exeter. It rerouted us down some winding lane that felt more like a goat track, and we ended up with a flat tyre courtesy of a sneaky pothole. Typical me, faffing about with the spare while the kids whinged about missing lunch. But honestly, that little drama only ramped up the anticipation – by the time we rolled up to our cosy little holiday cottage, we were starving and buzzing to explore.

First impressions? Absolute cracker. Tucked away in that peaceful North Devon spot near Barnstaple, it was the perfect bolthole – think welcoming porch piled with wellies, and a kitchen that screamed “get cooking”. We dumped the bags and cracked open a bottle of local cider we’d nabbed en route, toasting our arrival as the sun dipped low. That first evening, I had grand plans for a proper Devon fry-up, but settled for rummaging through the welcome pack’s basics: eggs, bacon, and a cheeky loaf of bread that was still warm. Fried it all up with some tomatoes we’d brought, and it tasted like heaven after the road woes.

Next morning, we hit the ground running with a wander to the nearby farm shop – no more than a couple of miles down the lane. Blimey, what a treasure trove: piles of creamy Devon clotted cream, artisan cheeses that could make you weep, and the freshest pasties you’ve ever seen. I loaded up on smoked mackerel, new potatoes, and a punnet of strawberries so ripe they burst in your mouth. Back at the cottage, my cooking attempt turned into a right laugh – I tried poshing up a fish pie with that mackerel, but overdid the mustard and it came out more fiery than intended. The family devoured it anyway, slathered in cream, with groans of “more please!” We paired it with a jug of scrumpy from the shop, giggling over my culinary blunder.

Pub grub became our daily ritual. There’s this brilliant local just a short stroll away – the kind with low ceilings, real ales on tap, and a menu that’s pure comfort. First night there, we went for platters of battered cod and chips, mushy peas on the side, and a shared treacle tart that was sticky-sweet perfection. The landlord recommended their house special, a Devon steak pie with gravy you could swim in, and we kept going back for seconds (or thirds). One evening, after a market haul of sausages and local cider-braised pork, we hosted a mini feast at the cottage table, inviting the kids to “help” – which mostly meant them nicking chips while I wrestled with pastry.

Reflecting on it now, sat here with a cuppa, that week was a gentle nudge that I’m rubbish at fancy recipes but brilliant at embracing the simple stuff. No Michelin stars needed when you’ve got Devon’s bounty on your plate – those pub pints, botched bakes, and market mornings left us fuller than we’ve ever been. If you’re after a holiday where the food steals the show, this corner of Devon’s your spot. Can’t wait to go back.