I’ll never forget the drive down to Kingswear – we’d set off from Bristol full of beans, dreaming of pasties and pints by the sea, only for the sat-nav to chuck us into a massive traffic snarl-up just past Exeter. Some cheeky diversion sign had us crawling along for what felt like hours, with me drumming my fingers on the wheel and my other half cracking on about how it’d make for a good story later. By the time we rolled into the village, though, all that was forgotten. The place looked like a proper postcard – that iconic castle looming over the water, the steam train chuffing away in the distance, and Dartmouth just a quick ferry hop across the estuary. We couldn’t wait to dump the bags and get stuck into some proper Devon grub.

Our spot was this swish modern apartment, all sleek lines and big windows with killer views over the water – perfect for kicking back after a day out. First impressions? Spot on. We arrived mid-afternoon, starving, and within minutes we were unpacking the cool bag we’d stuffed with bits from a farm shop en route: fresh crab from Brixham, crusty bread, and a wedge of local cheddar that could’ve doubled as a doorstop. I fancied myself as a bit of a chef that evening, so I had a bash at a seafood platter on the balcony. Boiled up some new potatoes (they’re tiny and perfect down here), tossed the crab with lemon and mayo, and cracked open a bottle of crisp white from the offy. It wasn’t MasterChef, mind – I overdid the garlic and ended up with breath like a dragon – but sat there watching the sun dip over the Dart, it tasted like heaven. Made me reflect a bit, actually; back home it’s always rush jobs in the kitchen, but holidays like this remind you there’s joy in faffing about with food, no agenda.

Next morning, we wandered down to the ferry for Dartmouth – five minutes and you’re there, puffing along with the breeze in your hair. The place is a foodie’s dream: we hit the covered market first, stocking up on smoked mackerel, fat Devon sausages, and the creamiest clotted cream you’ve ever seen. Bargain hunters’ paradise, all local and proper fresh. Lunch was at the Bayard’s Cove Inn, right by the water – fish and chips so crisp and flaky, with mushy peas that hit the spot. I hoovered mine in about two minutes flat, laughing at how I’d burned my tongue on the batter. Proper holiday overindulgence.

Evenings were pub central. The Steam Packet in Kingswear became our local – cracking ales, hearty ploughman’s with that tangy pickle, and locals who’d chat your ear off about the best spots for lobster. One night I tried cooking again: seared scallops from the market, paired with samphire foraged on a quick coastal path amble (well, bought from a stall, but it felt wild). Disaster struck when I set the smoke alarm off – heroically silenced it with a tea towel, but dinner was more charcoal than gourmet. We ended up at the pub anyway, splitting a massive seafood chowder that mopped up the embarrassment.

Kingswear’s got this magic for food lovers – simple, seasonal stuff done right, whether you’re faffing in your own kitchen or propping up a bar. Left us stuffed, happy, and plotting a return trip already. Can’t beat it.