I’ll never forget the drive down to Lyme Regis – sat nav had me convinced we’d make it in under three hours from Bristol, but no, a cheeky diversion round some roadworks on the A35 turned it into a proper faff. We ended up pulling into a layby for a bacon sarnie from a van, laughing about how I’d packed enough snacks to feed the M3, only to forget the thermos. Still, by the time we trundled into town, the anticipation was buzzing – that first glimpse of the sea sparkling under the Dorset sun had us grinning like kids.

Pulling up to the place, what a belter. It’s this cracking one-bedroom apartment tucked into a handsome detached Victorian house right in the heart of Lyme Regis, with these jaw-dropping views straight out over the Jurassic Coast. Proper romantic spot for me and the missus, all cosy and stylish without being fussy. We dumped the bags, cracked open a bottle of local cider from the offy, and just soaked it in from the window – boats bobbing, waves crashing, the works. First impressions? Spot on.

But let’s be honest, the real star of our stay was the grub. Lyme’s got this proper foodie vibe, all fresh seafood and farm-to-table stuff, and staying somewhere so central meant we were spoilt for choice. First evening, we wandered down to the Cobb – that iconic harbour wall – and hit the Hix Oyster and Fish House for supper. Crispy Lyme Bay crab cakes and a pile of glistening oysters, washed down with a crisp white. Divine, though I did slurp one a bit too enthusiastically and ended up with brine down my chin. Classy, eh?

Next morning, we mooched over to the weekly market on the broad street, just a stone’s throw away. StallS heaving with Dorset cheeses, artisan breads, and the freshest mackerel you’ve ever seen. I haggled (badly) for a bag of plump tomatoes and some herby sausages from a local butcher, dreaming of a heroic fry-up. Back at the apartment, with its neat little kitchen, I gave it a go – but blimey, trying to pan-fry those bream fillets we’d picked up resulted in a bit of a smoky fiasco. Fish stuck like glue, and the missus had to swoop in with her lemon-butter rescue. We sat on the balcony scoffing the slightly charred results with chunks of sourdough from the market, views of the coast making it taste Michelin-star anyway. Gentle reminder to self: stick to booking tables, mate.

Evenings were pub heaven. The Volunteer Inn, a proper Lyme local just up the hill, became our haunt – cracking fish pie one night, slow-roasted lamb the next, all paired with their real ales. We chatted with fishermen over pints, hearing tales of monster catches. Another fave was the Pilot Boat, right by the beach, where we demolished platters of local prawns and samphire, feet sandy from a quick dip. One rainy afternoon, we hunkered down with fish and chips from the town’s chippy, eaten straight from the paper on the sofa, Netflix on low.

By the end of the week, bellies full and a stone heavier (worth it), we were plotting our return. Lyme Regis isn’t just about the views – it’s the food that hooks you, simple as that. Proper holiday bliss.