I’ll never forget the drive down to Devon – rain lashing the windscreen like it had a personal grudge, and then, just past Exeter, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us on a detour through some winding lanes that felt more like a goat track than a road. We were crammed in the car with bags of groceries sliding around the boot, arguing over whether to trust Google Maps or stick it out. By the time we crested that final hill, hearts racing a bit from the near-miss with a rogue sheep, the clouds parted just enough to reveal this gorgeous little holiday cottage nestled in the Tavistock countryside. First impressions? Pure magic – that welcoming glow from the windows, the garden begging for a cuppa, and the promise of proper peace after the chaos.

We’d stocked up on the way at a farm shop near the A38, grabbing local cheeses, pasties stuffed with proper Devon beef, and a punnet of strawberries that were so ripe they burst in your mouth. Unpacking felt like Christmas; the kitchen was compact but brilliant, with everything you need for faffing about with home-cooked meals. First night, I fancied myself a chef and tried making a creamy cider-braised pork from a recipe scribbled on the back of a leaflet. Big mistake – it came out more like a stewed brick, tasting of regret and too much garlic. We laughed it off with a bottle of Cornish cider, picking at clotted cream fudge instead. Lesson learned: sometimes, simplicity wins, like toasting crumpets over the hob with butter dripping everywhere.

Next morning, we wandered into Tavistock’s Pannier Market, that buzzing hive of stalls under the old hall. Blimey, the smells! Freshly baked sconies, wheels of tangy Dartmoor cheddar, and trays of smoked mackerel that had me drooling. I haggled a bit – badly – for some plump sausages and a loaf of sourdough still warm from the oven. Back at the cottage, lunch was a feast: thick slices of ham from the butcher’s counter, slathered with piccalilli, and a salad of foraged-ish leaves (well, from the Co-op, but who’s judging?). It hit different eating it on the patio, watching the cows mooch about in the fields.

Evenings were pub time, naturally. The Dartmoor Inn, just a short stroll away, became our local. Proper pints of Jail Ale, golden and malty, with platters of fish and chips so crispy you could hear them crackle. One night, we shared a massive mixed grill – lamb chops, black pudding, the works – and I swear it was the best bit of nosh all week. Chatty locals swapped stories about cream teas (jam first, obviously), and we even got tips on the best pasty spots. My attempt at a full English breakfast the next day was a triumph by comparison – fried eggs sunny-side up, bacon rashers curling just right, and mushrooms from the market sautéed in butter. Sat there with tea steaming, I had a quiet moment thinking how daft it is we don’t do this more often – proper food, no rush, just lingering over meals that taste of the land.

By the end of the stay, we’d devoured enough pasties, pies, and puds to sink a ship, but what a way to holiday. Devon does food like nowhere else – hearty, honest, and utterly addictive. Can’t wait to go back for seconds.