I’ll never forget the drive down to Devon – sat nav insisting we take some winding B-road that turned into a single-track nightmare just past Honiton. We ended up behind a tractor chugging along at about 5mph, with hedges scraping the sides of the car. Proper comedy of errors, that was, but it only added to the anticipation bubbling up as we got closer to Axminster. By the time we pulled up, I was starving and dreaming of a proper pasty, and boy, did the place deliver first impressions.

It’s one of those cosy holiday cottages, all tucked away in a quiet spot with a welcoming vibe that just screams “relax here”. We dumped the bags and headed straight for the kitchen – stocked with basics, but we’d brought a few treats from home. First meal was my attempt at a Devonshire cream tea, using scones from the local bakery we’d spotted on the way in. I’m no Bake Off champion, mind – mine came out a bit lopsided, more like UFOs than scones – but slathered with clotted cream and strawberry jam pinched from the village shop, they hit the spot. Sat in the garden with a cuppa, watching the sun dip, it felt like proper holiday magic.

Next morning, we wandered into Axminster for the market – what a gem. Stalls heaving with fresh veg, local cheeses, and those massive Devon sausages that smell like heaven on the grill. Picked up some smoked mackerel from a fishmonger who swore it was caught that week, plus a punnet of strawberries so sweet they didn’t need sugar. Back at the cottage, lunch was a simple ploughman’s: hunks of cheddar, pickle, and crusty bread from the bakery. I even tried my hand at a pasty, rolling out dough with all the finesse of a drunk elephant. It leaked like a sieve in the oven, but with a bit of ketchup, it was passable – and we laughed about it over a pint later.

Evenings were pub central. The nearest one, just a short stroll away, does the best fish and chips I’ve had in ages – batter so crisp it shattered, and chips thick-cut with proper mushy peas. We went twice, once for a Sunday roast that groaned under the weight of Yorkshire puds and crackling pork. Another night, we splashed out on their specials board: local crab salad followed by steak pie that melted in your mouth. I’m a sucker for a good pudding, and their sticky toffee was pure indulgence – warm sponge, toffee sauce thicker than my waistline after a week there.

One rainy afternoon, holed up cooking a proper feast: roasted a shoulder of lamb we’d grabbed from the butcher (he recommended a nearby farm shop, only a mile off), with rosemary from the cottage herb patch and spuds from the market. It was a bit of a faff, what with the oven playing up, but worth it. Sat round the table, rain pattering on the windows, it made me reflect on how these simple meals, messed up or not, are what holidays are about – not perfection, but sharing grub with loved ones and forgetting the daily grind.

Honestly, that week of pub crawls, market hauls, and kitchen disasters was the best. Devon does food like nowhere else, and I’m already plotting the next trip for more.