I’ll never forget the drive down to Devon – sat nav had us twisting through those narrow lanes near Bideford, and wouldn’t you know it, we had a proper comedy of errors when the tyre pressure warning light pinged on. Pulled over at some random layby, faffed about with the pump from the boot, and by the time we sorted it, we were starving and giggling like idiots. But as we finally crested that hill and spotted the place through the electric gates, all that stress melted away. There it was, this cracking three-storey cottage perched high up on the rural edge of town, with those jaw-dropping estuary views stretching out like a proper postcard. I could already picture us piling in for a feast.

Stepping inside felt like unwrapping a massive hug – spacious, luxurious, and just begging for a big group get-together. We’d come with mates and the kids for my mate’s birthday, and it was spot on: that huge kitchen with its breakfast bar for two (handy for the early risers), a proper dining table for toasting, and a woodburner to keep things cosy later. First impressions? Blimey, we were hooked. Dropped the bags and cracked open a bottle while someone rustled up bacon butties to tide us over.

The real star, though, was the food – or our attempts at it, anyway. Mornings kicked off with fry-ups at that breakfast bar: local sausages from Bideford market we’d nipped to on day one (proper butcher’s stuff, none of your supermarket rubbish). I fancied myself as chef-in-chief, but my attempt at Devonshire splits went hilariously wrong – more like flattened scones after I overworked the dough. Laughing about it over clotted cream and jam salvaged the day, and the views from the window made it all feel dead posh.

Evenings were where we shone (ish). We’d fire up the barbecue on the patio overlooking the estuary, flipping burgers and corn while the hot tub bubbled away temptingly. One night, I tried posh-ing it up with a whole sea bass from the fishmonger down by the harbour – caught a whiff of that fresh Torridge estuary vibe. Paired it with spuds from the garden (well, the lawn area, anyway) and a massive salad. Sat there alfresco as the sun dipped, kids playing fetch on the grass below, it was pure magic. Inside, we’d gather round the dining table for a proper spread – pasta one night (store cupboard triumph), then a curry from scratch using spices we’d grabbed at the weekly market. The games room kept the lot of us entertained post-pudding, battling it out over table football before collapsing by the woodburner with telly and leftover pud.

Ventured into Bideford a couple times for pub grub – The Royal at Instow did cracking fish and chips with mushy peas that hit the spot after a wander on the beach. Closer by, we hit a couple of locals for pints and ploughman’s; that cheddar from the farm shop was unreal on doorstep bread. Markets were gold – fresh bread, pasties stuffed with proper Devon beef, and cheeses that made you forget any diet.

Looking back, it was dead therapeutic, innit? Me, faffing in the kitchen, realising I’m not half bad when there’s no rush and cracking views to inspire you. Made me reflect on how we rush through life without proper sit-down meals. This place forced us to slow down, share stories over seconds, and make memories that taste better than any restaurant. If you’re after a holiday where the eating’s as good as the scenery, this is it – just don’t let me loose on the scones again.