I’ll never forget the drive down to Seaton – a proper faff with the sat-nav deciding to chuck a wobbly just past Honiton, sending us on a detour through some narrow lanes that had me gripping the wheel like it was a lifeline. But as we finally rolled into the town, the Jurassic Coast sparkling under the sun, all that stress melted away. There it was, our spot: a superb ground-floor luxury apartment in a stunning conversion from an 1870 Victorian town house (formerly a bank), smack in the heart of this buzzing seaside gem. First impressions? Blimey, it was love at first sight – cosy yet posh, with everything we needed to kick back.

We’d arrived buzzing with anticipation, dreaming of lazy days scoffing local treats, and it didn’t disappoint. Unpacked in a flash, then straight out to the Seaton Friday market, just a stone’s throw away. The stalls were heaving with Devonshire goodies: fresh crab from the harbour boats, plump strawberries that tasted like summer in a punnet, and wheels of crumbly cheddar that begged to be sliced. I grabbed a load – plus some smoked mackerel and artisan bread – plotting my first culinary triumph. Back at the apartment, the kitchen was a dream: sleek hob, proper knives, the lot. I fancied myself a telly chef, knocking up a mackerel pâté with lemon and herbs. It wasn’t half bad, if I say so myself, though the texture was more rustic than refined. We paired it with a crisp white from the offie round the corner, laughing over a glass as the sun dipped into the sea.

Next morning, we hit The Vaults, a cracking pub tucked nearby with outdoor seats overlooking the high street buzz. Proper seaside fare: fish and chips so fresh the batter crunched like it was meant to, mushy peas on the side, and a pint of Otter Ale that slid down a treat. I overdid it on the vinegar, mind – my lips puckered for hours! Lunch was a cheeky pasty from the bakery opposite, stuffed with proper Devon beef and swede, eaten on a bench by the promenade watching families paddle in the shallows.

Evenings were for experimenting. One night, I tried a crab linguine using market pickings – garlic, chilli, a splash of cream. Turned out lush, but I’ll admit, the self-reflection hit when I realised half the joy was in the messing about, not some Michelin-star perfection. It made me think how these stays remind you life’s too short for naff ready meals; nothing beats faffing with local loot while the other half reads the paper.

We wrapped up with a Sunday roast at The George – lamb shank falling off the bone, Yorkshire puds like pillows, all washed down with local cider. Rolled home stuffed and happy, already plotting the next trip. Seaton’s food scene had us hooked – simple, hearty, and utterly Devonian. What a holiday.