We’d barely turned off the lane towards Tuckenhay when the satnav cheerfully announced we’d arrived, right outside a neighbour’s garage. After a quick three-point turn and some muttered apologies through the window, we finally pulled up at Garden House, the little stone cottage tucked just back from the creek. The tide was out, leaving a wide stretch of mud and wading birds, and the smell of salt and woodsmoke drifted up from somewhere along the bank. Inside, the kitchen was small but perfectly stocked with mismatched plates and a temperamental gas hob that took three matches to light.

By the time we’d unpacked the cool bag, it was already past one, so we wandered the half-mile into the village in search of lunch. The Maltsters Arms had a chalkboard outside promising crab sandwiches and local cider, and we grabbed the last table by the window. The crab was sweet and piled high, the bread doorstep-thick, and the pint of Rattler slipped down far too easily for a Monday. We lingered over coffee until the landlord mentioned that the farm shop just up the hill still had fresh pasties if we hurried.

Back at the cottage that evening we decided to cook, partly to justify the bulging tote of groceries we’d picked up earlier. The market in Totnes had been bustling that morning—stalls of just-picked greens, rounds of local cheese, and a fishmonger with day-boat mackerel gleaming on ice. We’d bought far more than two people could reasonably eat, including a bunch of curly kale that looked deceptively sturdy. An hour later the kitchen smelled of garlic and slightly scorched edges; the mackerel fillets were perfect, but the kale had wilted into something resembling pondweed. We ate it anyway, laughing as we scraped the pan.

The next morning brought another slow start and another food quest. We strolled along the creek path to the tiny honesty-box stall that sells duck eggs and homemade chutney, then carried our spoils back for a late breakfast of thick toast and bright yellow yolks. By midday we were ready for proper pub grub again, this time at the Waterman’s Arms in nearby Bow, where the Sunday roast was still on offer midweek—slow-cooked pork, crackling that actually cracked, and cabbage so buttery it felt like a treat rather than a vegetable.

That afternoon we attempted a picnic on the little shingle beach below the house, spreading a blanket between the rocks and unpacking pork pies, Cornish gouda, and a bottle of Plymouth gin. The tide turned while we ate, creeping around our shoes until we had to retreat laughing up the slipway. Later, back in the warm kitchen, we tried again with the leftover kale, this time chopping it finely and frying it with chilli and lemon. It was almost edible. Sitting there, scraping the last flakes of fish from the pan while rain tapped the skylight, I realised the best part of the trip wasn’t the scenery or even the successful meals—it was the gentle rhythm of deciding what to eat next, and mostly getting it right.