I’ll never forget the drive down to Devon – sat nav had me convinced we’d make it in under four hours, but no, a cheeky diversion round some roadworks near Exeter turned it into a proper saga. We ended up stopping at a services for emergency pasties, laughing about how I’d packed enough snacks to feed the M5. Still, as we wound through those narrow lanes towards Bideford, the anticipation built – I could practically smell the sea air and imagine cracking open a cold cider on arrival.

Pulling up to the cottage, my first impressions were spot on: a cosy little haven tucked away in a quiet spot, all welcoming with its homely vibe and those little touches that make you go “ahh”. We dumped the bags and cracked on with the important business – supper. The kitchen was brilliantly stocked, so I fancied myself as a proper chef, rustling up a seafood linguine with prawns from the local fishmonger we’d spotted en route. Turned out alright, if a bit salty – husband joked it was “Devon seasoning”. We washed it down with a bottle of white from the offie, feet up, already knackered but chuffed.

Next morning, we hit the Bideford Pannier Market, buzzing with stalls groaning under fresh veg, artisan cheeses, and slabs of proper Devon clotted cream. I loaded up on local sausages, smoked mackerel, and a punnet of strawberries that were so sweet they didn’t need sugar. Back at the cottage, my cooking attempt number two was a full-on fry-up: black pudding, bacon from the market, and eggs scrambled to perfection. Managed not to burn the toast this time, which felt like a win. Lunch was simpler – crab sandwiches made with the freshest picks from a nearby stall, eaten on the patio with the sun doing its thing.

Evenings were for pubs, naturally. The first night, we ambled to a cracking local just a short stroll away – think low ceilings, roaring fire, and punters chatting like old mates. I went for the fish and chips, golden and flaky, with mushy peas that hit the spot. Husband raved about the steak and ale pie, proper pastry that flaked just right. Pints of Otter Ale flowed, and we even squeezed in a game of darts (I lost, spectacularly). Another evening, we tried a different boozer down by the estuary, where the specials board screamed Devonshire cream tea with scones still warm from the oven. Obvious choice – jammed and clotted to heaven, with a pot of tea strong enough to stand a spoon in.

One rainy afternoon, I got ambitious with a pasty from the market, attempting to recreate it with steak, spuds, and swede. It emerged a tad wonky, more pie than pasty, but tasted grand with a side of pickled onions. Sat there munching, rain pattering the windows, I had a proper moment of reflection – how often do we rush about without savouring these simple joys? No fancy restaurants, just good grub, local flavours, and that satisfied belly feeling. By the end of the week, we’d eaten like kings on a budget, from cottage experiments to pub feasts. Devon’s got it spot on for foodie holidays – I’m already plotting the next one.