I’ll never forget the drive down to Westward Ho! – that classic British holiday road trip where everything’s going swimmingly until it isn’t. We’d piled into the car in Bristol with a boot full of snacks and high hopes, the SatNav promising a breezy two-and-a-bit hours. But halfway through, just past Exeter, I took a wrong turn onto one of those narrow Devon lanes that twist like a hungover snake. Twenty minutes of reversing past hedges later, we emerged laughing, a bit windswept, but buzzing with that proper arrival anticipation. As we crested the hill and spotted the sea glinting, my heart did a little flip – this was going to be mint.

Pulling up to the cottage, right next to the owner’s place and just a short stroll from the burrows and sandy beach, I was chuffed to bits. It had that cosy, lived-in charm you don’t get from a sterile hotel – perfect for kicking back like locals. First impressions? Spot on. We dumped the bags and headed straight out, stomachs rumbling after the detour drama.

Westward Ho! is a gem for foodies on a budget, and we dived in headfirst. That first evening, we wandered into one of the village cafes for fish and chips – proper golden batter, mushy peas on the side, and a cheeky pot of tea. Sat on a bench overlooking the beach, vinegar dripping everywhere, it felt like the ideal welcome. The next morning, we hit the local shops for supplies. There’s a cracking little market vibe on the high street – fresh bread from the bakery, plump strawberries from a nearby farm stall, and Devon cider that’s dangerously moreish. I grabbed some local sausages and cheeses, dreaming of a fry-up to rival my nan’s.

Cooking in the cottage was half the fun, though I’ll admit to a gentle self-reflection moment mid-week. I fancied myself a chef, rustling up a pasty-inspired stew with meat from the butcher’s and veggies we’d picked up. But bless it, I overseasoned the lot – too much rosemary, not enough sense. We ended up giggling over plates of slightly piney mush, washing it down with cans from the offie. “Next time, stick to beans on toast,” my mate quipped. Fair play, he had a point; holidays are for experimenting, but some experiments are best left in the pan.

Pubs became our religion. The Village Inn down the road does a cracking Sunday roast – tender beef, Yorkshire puds like clouds, and gravy that could make you weep. We holed up there twice, chatting with locals about the surf conditions (rubbish that day, mind) and the best spots for crab fishing off the rocks. Another night, we tried The Brookside, where the seafood chowder was creamy heaven, packed with mussels from Appledore’s harbour just up the coast. It’s that quintessential coastal nosh – simple, fresh, and utterly satisfying. We even nipped over to Appledore for their chippy, narrow streets alive with the smell of frying haddock. Clovelly’s pub grub was calling too, a quick jaunt for crab sandwiches that tasted straight from the sea.

By the end of the week, we’d devoured our way through cream teas (scones with clotted cream thicker than my accent), pasties from the bakery that put Greggs to shame, and enough ice cream to fuel a sugar rush to the beach. Staying put in that spot, with the cottage as our base for all this feasting, was pure bliss. Who needs fancy holidays when Devon’s got grub like this? I’m already plotting the return trip – and this time, I’m bringing a cookbook.