I’ll never forget the drive down to Devon – we’d packed the car with enough cheese and crackers to last a siege, but about halfway there, just past Exeter, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us on a scenic detour through some narrow lanes that had me white-knuckling the wheel. “This better be worth it,” I muttered to my other half, as we finally emerged, windswept and a tad peckish, onto the coast road near Bigbury. But oh, the anticipation built as we spotted the sea glinting in the distance – that salty tang in the air promising proper holiday vibes.

Pulling up to the farmhouse, my first impressions were spot on: a cosy, rambling place with that welcoming hug of a home-away-from-home feel, perfect for a family like ours. We dumped the bags and cracked open a bottle of local cider from the off-licence on the way – sharp and fizzy, just the ticket after our little adventure.

Right from the off, it was all about the food. Breakfasts were my domain, or so I thought. Day one, I attempted a full Devon fry-up: local sausages from the butcher in nearby Kingsbridge (we nipped there first thing), thick bacon rashers, and eggs from the farm shop down the lane. But in my enthusiasm, I overdid the black pudding and ended up with a pan that looked like a crime scene. Laughing it off over slightly charred toast, we vowed to do better. The views from the kitchen window over the fields towards the beach made it forgivable, mind.

Pub lunches became our ritual. The one in Bigbury-on-Sea, just a short stroll away, served the best crab sandwiches I’ve had in ages – fresh from the bay, slathered in mayo on crusty white, with a side of proper chips. We went back twice, once for fish and chips that were so golden and flaky, wrapped in paper for that authentic touch. Paired with a pint of bitter, it was pure bliss, sat outside watching the tide roll in over the sandbar to Burgh Island. My other half demolished a ploughman’s that could’ve fed a small army – cheddar so crumbly and tangy, it melted in the mouth.

Evenings were for cooking experiments in the big farmhouse kitchen. We hit the weekly market in Modbury, only a ten-minute drive, stocking up on pasties stuffed with steak and veg, still warm from the stall, and bags of ripe strawberries that tasted like summer itself. One night, I tried my hand at a cream tea – sconces (sorry, scones) baked from scratch, clotted cream from a local dairy, and strawberry jam. They weren’t perfect – a bit lopsided, truth be told – but slathered up with a pot of builder’s tea, we scoffed the lot on the patio as the sun dipped low.

There was this gentle moment one evening, post a failed attempt at local mussel linguine (too much garlic, lesson learned), when I sat there with a glass of wine, reflecting on how these simple meals, shared with loved ones in such a cracking spot, make you realise life’s best bits are the messy, delicious ones. No Michelin stars needed. We wrapped up with a final pub supper of roast chicken and all the trimmings at the village local – tender bird, fluffy Yorkshires, gravy like nectar. Rolling home stuffed and happy, I knew we’d be back for more Devon feasts. What a holiday.