I’ll never forget the drive down to that little spot near Sidmouth – sat nav insisting we take some winding back lane that turned into a proper mud bath after a sneaky shower. We skidded a bit, hearts in mouths, with me yelling at the husband to slow down while the kids giggled in the back. But oh, what a payoff when we finally crunched up the private drive. This detached Grade II listed cottage, one of just two luxury holiday homes tucked in the rural Venn Ottery countryside, hit us like a warm hug. Walled garden, private hot tub – proper lush, and from the off, it felt like our own little haven, miles from the hustle.

First impressions? Spot on. We piled in, bags everywhere, and the spacious open-plan living area with its vaulted ceilings became instant HQ. Sociable, stylish, perfect for us lot – family of four needing space to sprawl. I was buzzing already, eyeing the kitchen and dreaming of feasts. East Devon’s got that foodie pull, doesn’t it? All those fresh local bits you can’t get back home.

Day one, we didn’t stray far. Nipped to the nearby farm shop – just a couple of miles up the road – and loaded up on Devon goodies: plump sausages from rare-breed pigs, crumbly cheeses that smelled like heaven, and the creamiest clotted cream you’ve ever seen. Back at the cottage, I fancied myself a proper chef. Whipped up a massive sausage casserole with local cider from a bottle we grabbed en route. Husband manned the hob while I chopped veg from their honesty box stall – carrots still dusted with soil. It was a laugh, though my timing was off and the spuds boiled to mush. Still, wolfed down with fresh bread, it tasted like victory. Kids rated it 10/10, the little fibbers.

Next morning, we hit the Saturday market in Ottery St Mary – buzzing with stalls of artisan loaves, handmade pies, and jars of spicy chutney that I couldn’t resist. Picked up smoked mackerel from the fisher bloke (straight from the Jurassic Coast, he reckoned) and some wild garlic pesto. Pub lunch called after – The Rabbit Inn, a cosy local just down the lanes. Proper Devon pub grub: hearty fish pie with peas from the garden, washed down with a pint of Otter Ale. Sat outside in the sun, chatting to walkers who’d done the same circuit. Felt dead authentic, like we belonged.

Evenings were bliss. One night, hot tub bubbling while we grazed on a charcuterie board I’d cobbled from market finds – salami, brie, and those naughty fudge chunks. Tried my hand at a seafood linguine with the mackerel; bit of a faff filleting it, but with a glass of white, it was chef’s kiss. Laughed at myself, though – always the one who burns the garlic bread. Gentle nudge: holidays like this remind me to slow down, savour the simple stuff. No rush, just good food and family.

Last day, full English from local bacon and eggs – fried up in that cracking kitchen. Left stuffed and smiling, already plotting a return for more of Devon’s tasty treats. What a feed!