I’ll never forget the drive down to Devon – we’d packed the car to the brim with posh cheeses and a bottle of prosecco for the road, dreaming of cream teas and pasties, only for the sat-nav to chuck us into a massive traffic jam just past Exeter. Half an hour of inching along, engine humming like an impatient bee, and me fiddling with the radio for some decent tunes. “This is why we should’ve taken the train,” I grumbled to my other half, but secretly I was buzzing with that holiday anticipation, picturing lazy lunches by the coast.

Finally rolling up to our cosy little holiday cottage near Axminster, the first impressions were spot on – that welcoming glow from the windows as dusk settled, and the hot tub out back winking like it knew we’d need it after the drive. It’s one of those classic rural retreats, all snug and inviting with a homely vibe that screams “put your feet up”. We dumped the bags and cracked open a tin of local cider we’d grabbed en route, toasting to no more M5 madness.

Food became our religion from the off. First morning, we pottered over to Axminster’s high street market – proper Devon stuff, stalls groaning under fresh veg, artisan breads, and wheels of tangy cheddar that could make you weep. I haggled (badly) for some plump tomatoes and a punnet of strawberries, feeling like a proper local. Back at the cottage, my attempt at a full English was a comedy of errors – sausages from the butcher’s that stuck to the pan like glue, and eggs that turned into rubbery frisbees. Laughing over our charred efforts, we salvaged it with baked beans and a side of self-deprecation: “Note to self, stick to toast next time.”

Pub lunches saved the day, though. The nearby spot in the village – you know the kind, low ceilings and chatty locals – did the best crab sandwiches I’ve ever had, slathered in mayo with a side of salty chips. We went back twice, once for a ploughman’s that came with pickled onions so sharp they made my eyes water, and another for fish pie that was pure comfort in a bowl. Evenings were for firing up the cottage kitchen properly: I managed a decent pasta with market pesto and prawns from the fishmonger down the road, washed down with a crisp white from the offy. The hot tub after? Bliss, bubbles and a sneaky chocolate from the honesty box we found nearby.

One rainy afternoon, we braved a farm shop just a mile away for bacon, sconces (clotted cream essential, obviously), and jars of chutney that we’re still ploughing through back home. My cooking highlight was a spontaneous seafood chowder, bits chucked in from our hauls – mussels plump as you like, smoked haddock swirling in creamy glory. It wasn’t MasterChef, but it tasted of holiday magic.

Reflecting on it now, that week was a gentle nudge that I’m rubbish in the kitchen under pressure, but give me fresh Devon produce and a well-stocked larder, and I’m away. No fancy restaurants needed – just markets, pubs, and a bit of faffing about with recipes. Best bit? Ending each day full, fizzed, and utterly content. Can’t wait to go back for more.