I finally made it to Devon after what felt like the world's longest drive from Bristol. I'd packed the car with enough snacks to feed a small army – crisps, pork scratchings, you name it – but about 20 miles out, disaster struck. A rogue pigeon decided my windscreen was its personal landing strip, splattering it with the mother of all gifts. I pulled over near Okehampton, muttering to myself while scrubbing it off with a soggy baby wipe. Typical me, turning a simple journey into a feathery farce. Still, by the time I trundled down that winding lane to the barn conversion, the sun was dipping low, and my stomach was rumbling like a Devon thunderstorm.

Pulling up, I was chuffed to bits. The place was a cosy little barn-style gem, all tucked away in its own orchard patch, with that welcoming glow from the windows promising a proper home-from-home. First impressions? Spot on. I dumped my bags, cracked open a tin of local cider I'd nabbed en route, and got stuck into unpacking the groceries. I'd planned this holiday around one thing: eating like a king without the hassle of restaurants every night.

Day one kicked off with a rummage through Okehampton's market – proper old-school stuff, just a short hop away. Stalls groaning under fresh Devon produce: plump tomatoes, wheels of crumbly cheddar from the local dairy, and the creamiest clotted cream you've ever seen. I loaded up on pasties from a baker who'd been at it for generations – steak and stilton, my absolute weakness. Back at the barn, I attempted my first "gourmet" meal: a pasty bake with some spuds and a dollop of that cream on the side. Let's just say it was more rustic than restaurant-ready; I overdid the cheese and ended up with a cheesy landslide on my plate. Laughed at myself in the mirror afterwards – when did I turn into such a kitchen klutz?

Evenings were for the pubs, and oh boy, did they deliver. The first night, I wandered to a cracking local just down the road – think low ceilings, roaring fire, and punters who greet you like an old mate. I went for the Devonshire rarebit, all gooey with local ale, followed by a pint of something hoppy from the microbrewery nearby. Chatted with the barman about his fishing trips; turns out the best crab comes from just a couple of miles up the coast. Next day, I tried cooking again – fish pie with smoked haddock from the market fishmonger. Burnt the edges a tad, but washed down with more cider, it hit the spot. Self-reflection moment: holidays like this make me realise how much I miss proper home cooking. Back home, it's grab-and-go; here, faffing about in that barn kitchen felt like therapy.

We capped it with a pub crawl of sorts – another gem half a mile off, dishing up lamb shank that fell off the bone, slathered in mint sauce from their herb garden. Puddings were legendary: sticky toffee with clotted cream ice cream. I waddled back each night, stuffed and satisfied. Who needs fancy holidays when you've got Devon's food scene right on your doorstep? If you're after a break that's all about tucking in without the fuss, this is it. I'll be back for more market hauls and mishap meals before you know it.