I’ll never forget the drive down to North Devon – we piled into the car from Bristol, kids buzzing in the back with crisps and sweets, me navigating via a dodgy phone signal. Halfway there, disaster struck: a rogue seagull dive-bombed our windscreen, leaving a proper mess of feathers and guano. We pulled over near Braunton for an emergency clean-up with baby wipes and a lot of laughter, turning what could’ve been a grumble into a hilarious story. By the time we trundled into Northam, the sun was dipping low, and I was starving, dreaming of fish and chips.

Pulling up to this cracking four-bed family cottage, my heart did a little flip – it looked proper welcoming, all cosy and lived-in, perfect for our gang of eight. First impressions? Spot on. The kitchen was a dream, massive fridge stocked with local milk we’d grabbed en route, and a cooker begging for some holiday experimentation. We dumped the bags and cracked open a bottle of prosecco while I rustled up spag bol from scratch – nothing fancy, but using fresh mince from the Bideford market we’d detoured through that morning. The kids wolfed it down, declaring it better than Mum’s (cheeky sods).

Next day, we wandered the half-mile to Westward Ho! beach, but let’s be honest, the real pull was the food trail. We hit a beachside café for bacon butties slathered in HP sauce – crispy, fatty perfection with mugs of builder’s tea. Back at the cottage, I fancied myself as a proper chef, attempting a Devon cream tea with sconces from the village bakery. Disaster again: mine came out like hockey pucks, but with clotted cream and strawberry jam from Appledore’s farm shop (just two miles away), they were still devoured. Laughing at my wonky efforts, I reflected on how these daft kitchen fails make holidays memorable – who needs Michelin stars when you’ve got family and a good dollop of jam?

Evenings were pub heaven. The Royal North Devon Golf Club’s just a stone’s throw, but we skipped the fairways for their clubhouse grub – massive Sunday roasts with Yorkshire puds the size of hubcaps, washed down with local Otter ale. Strolled to Northam Burrows for rockpool paddling (treasure hunts for crabs doubled as lunch inspiration), then ferry-hopped the estuary to Instow, two and a half miles off. Their quayside chippy did the best battered cod I’ve had, vinegar sharp and chips fluffy. Bideford, another short hop, had a brilliant market – we loaded up on pasties, Devon fudge, and artisan cheeses for a cheesy feast back home.

One night, we ventured to a cosy Westward Ho! pub for seafood platters: plump prawns, fresh mussels in garlic, and lemon sole that melted in your mouth. The kids had mini fish fingers, happy as Larry. Cooking in that well-kitted kitchen became our ritual – barbecues with local sausages from the butcher, salads from Instow’s greengrocer. Even my naff attempts at pasty-making (pastry like cardboard) ended in giggles and seconds.

This North Devon gem fed us body and soul – simple, hearty eats, pub banter, and those market hauls made it unforgettable. Can’t wait to go back for more.