I’ll never forget the drive down to Mortehoe – sat nav had me convinced I was heading the right way until I ended up in a narrow lane with hedges scraping the sides of the car. Classic me, panicking over a wrong turn just as the sun dipped low over the Devon hills. But honestly, that little mishap only built the buzz; by the time I pulled up to the apartment in this pretty seaside village, I was starving and buzzing with anticipation for a proper holiday feast.

First impressions? Spot on. The place was a cosy gem, perfect for kicking back after a day out, with everything you need right there in the heart of Mortehoe. No fuss, just a welcoming vibe that screamed “relax and eat well”. I dumped my bags and headed straight out to scope the local scene – Woolacombe’s golden sands are only a mile and a half away, but I was more interested in the pubs and eateries lining the charming village streets. Surfers were padding about with boards under their arms, and the air smelled of salty chips and fresh batter.

That first evening, I hit The Woolacombe Bay Café for fish and chips – none of your flabby tourist stuff, this was proper, golden-crisp cod with mushy peas that melted in your mouth. Sat outside watching the waves, pint of local ale in hand, I thought, “This is why we do holidays.” Next morning, I wandered to the little market stall near the beach – fresh crab from Ilfracombe boats (just five miles up the road), plump strawberries from Devon farms, and crusty bread that begged to be turned into a sarnie. Bargain at a couple of quid a punnet.

Back at the apartment, I fancied playing chef. The kitchen was ace for it – I rustled up a seafood linguine with that market crab, chucking in garlic, chilli, and a splash of white wine I’d grabbed from the village offie. Turned out half decent, though I did burn the edges a bit – gentle reminder that I’m no MasterChef, more like Microwave Man on a good day. Laughed at myself over a glass of red, windows open to the sea breeze.

Pub crawls became my thing. The Mount Strange in Woolacombe does a cracking Sunday roast – tender Devon beef, Yorkshire puds the size of saucers, all washed down with their house cider that’s dangerously smooth. Then there’s The Sandpiper, where I demolished a platter of local oysters and smoked mackerel pâté, chatting with locals about the best spots for paddleboarders’ post-surf scoffs. One night, I even joined a quiz team at a Mortehoe boozer, fuelling up on pork pies and pickled eggs – we came last, but the laughs (and the pork scratchings) made it a win.

Evenings often meant experimenting: a full English with sausages from the village butcher, or a cheeky pasty heated up after a coastal amble along the South West Coast Path. Ilfracombe tempted me over for a boat trip once – grabbed fish straight off the quay, grilled it simple back at base. Food here isn’t fancy; it’s hearty, fresh, and ties you to the sea and farms around you.

Reflecting now, that week was a proper indulgence – less about ticking off trails, more about savouring every bite and brew. If you’re after a holiday where your happiest memories are mouthfuls of Devon goodness, Mortehoe’s your spot. I’m already plotting the next one.