I’ll never forget the drive down to North Devon – sat nav insisting we take some winding back lane near Barnstaple, only for us to end up behind a tractor doing about 10 miles an hour. We were starving by the time we turned off towards Littleham, fantasising about fish and chips, but honestly, that little delay built up the anticipation. Pulling into the village, though, what a first impression! This cosy cottage popped into view, all tucked away peacefully, and I could already picture lazy mornings with the kettle on.

Right next door, practically, is the local pub – couldn’t have asked for better. We dumped the bags and headed straight there for our first meal. Proper proper pub grub: a massive plate of battered cod with chunky chips, mushy peas on the side, and a pint of local ale that went down far too easily. The barman reckoned it was from a microbrewery just up the road in Bideford, and it tasted like summer in a glass. We chatted with a couple of locals who’d clearly been walking the cliffs all day, raving about how a cold one hits different after that.

Next morning, we drove the three miles into Bideford’s market town buzz. The market was in full swing – stalls groaning under fresh Devon crab, pasties stuffed with steak and spuds, and wheels of cheese that smelled like heaven. I grabbed some smoked mackerel and a loaf of proper crusty bread for the cottage kitchen. Back home, my cooking attempt was a comedy of errors: tried pan-frying the mackerel with a bit of lemon and herbs from the garden patch outside, but I overseasoned it something rotten. Tasted like the sea had a grudge against me! Still, we laughed it off with mugs of tea, reflecting on how these daft kitchen disasters are half the fun of a self-catering holiday. Makes you appreciate the pros even more.

Evenings became a ritual of pub-hopping. That local in Littleham served up the best Sunday roast I’ve had in ages – roast beef carved tableside, Yorkshire puds like fluffy clouds, and gravy you could swim in. One night, we pushed the boat out with their specials board: West Country lamb shank that fell off the bone, paired with a sticky toffee pudding so good it was criminal. Bideford’s got a few cracking spots too – we found this no-nonsense eatery doing cream teas with scones still warm from the oven, clotted cream thicker than my accent after a few drinks.

For a lighter day, we wandered to Westward Ho! beach, just a 10-minute drive, and packed a picnic from market finds: pork pies, local fudge, and strawberries that burst with juice. Sat on the sand, waves crashing, munching away – pure bliss. Back at the cottage, I redeemed myself with a simple pasta using Bideford-bought chorizo and cherry tomatoes, sizzling away while we watched the sunset over the fields.

Staying here’s all about that foodie rhythm: markets by day, pub feasts by night, with your own bungled efforts in between. Left me fuller, happier, and plotting the next trip already.