I’ll never forget the drive down to Braunton last month – we’d packed the car to bursting with cool bags of picnic bits and a bottle of prosecco for the arrival fizz, only for the sat-nav to chuck us into a massive traffic snarl-up just past Barnstaple. Half an hour of inching along with the kids moaning about needing the loo, and me fantasising about ditching it all for a chippy on the A361. But as we finally rolled into the village, the sun breaking through the clouds over those rolling Devon hills, my heart lifted. Braunton’s got that proper North Devon charm – quiet lanes, not a hint of rush – and pulling up to our beautiful detached house, I could already picture lazy mornings with brekkie trays.

Stepping inside, it was love at first sight. Spacious doesn’t cover it; the large kitchen screamed “cook up a storm here,” with every gadget under the sun, a proper dining area, and a cosy snug opening straight onto the garden. Down the hall, the quiet sitting room begged for a post-feast doze with garden views, while the kids vanished into the games room with its pool table and ping-pong setup. Perfect setup for a family blowout, and we were there to celebrate my birthday with zero faff.

Food was the absolute star of the week – we made it our mission to eat our way around Braunton’s gems. First night, after unpacking, we wandered to The Georgian Tea Rooms on the village high street, just a stroll away. Grabbed their legendary cream teas – scones still warm, clotted cream thicker than my patience on a diet, and jam that tasted like it was picked that morning. I slathered mine like there was no tomorrow, laughing as the kids demolished a tray of pasties. “This is holiday heaven,” I declared, licking crumbs off my fingers.

Next day, I fancied a proper crack at that kitchen. Nipped to Braunton’s weekly market – it’s a proper treat, stalls groaning under fresh Devon crab, local cheeses that could make you weep, and veg so vibrant it hurt. Bargained for some shiny courgettes, plump tomatoes, and a slab of fudge for good measure. Back home, I attempted a seafood linguine with crab from the market – sounded posh, but let’s be honest, it was more “chuck it all in and pray.” The kids rated it 11/10 (praise indeed), and we washed it down in the snug with doors flung open to the garden, pretending we were chefs on telly.

Evenings meant pub crawls on foot. The Village Inn round the corner does the best beer-battered cod – crispy outside, flaky perfection within – paired with chips that could fuel a hike up to Saunton Sands. One night, we hit The Braunton Inn for a Sunday roast that went on for hours: massive Yorkshire puds, gravy like nectar, and veg from nearby farms. I overdid the puds, naturally, waddling back stuffed and content.

Reflecting on it now, amid the chaos of cooking disasters (my “gourmet” pasty experiment turned into a brick), I realised it’s these simple feasts that stick. No fancy restaurants needed – just good grub, local vibes, and a house that let us play happy hosts. If you’re after a Devon holiday built around belly laughs and full plates, Braunton’s your spot. We’re already plotting a return for more market hauls.