I’ll never forget the drive down to Croyde last month – we’d packed the car with enough snacks to feed a small army, but halfway through Devon, the satnav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us on a detour through some narrow lanes that had me gripping the wheel like it was a lifeline. Branches scraping the sides, cows staring us down judgementally – classic British road trip mishap! But as we finally crested the hill into Croyde, hearts lifted with that proper holiday buzz, the sea sparkling below like it was rolling out the red carpet. Spotting our two-bedroom penthouse apartment, perched high with that jaw-dropping view straight over Croyde Beach, I knew we’d struck gold. Just 400 metres from the sand, it screamed luxury without the fuss – perfect for us lot, whether we fancied a romantic mooch or family chaos.

First impressions? Blown away. We dumped the bags and cracked open a bottle of local Devon cider on the balcony, watching surfers carve up the waves while the sun dipped low. But let’s be honest, the real magic for me was the food scene – North Devon does it like nowhere else, all fresh, hearty, and unpretentious. That first evening, we wandered down to the village and hit The Thatch, that cosy pub right in the heart of things. Pints of Otter Ale pulled just right, followed by the best fish and chips I’ve had in ages – crispy batter, proper mushy peas, and chunks of cod straight from the boats. We devoured it outside, sand still between our toes from a quick beach dash.

Next morning, I fancied playing masterchef in the apartment’s slick kitchen – stocked with everything you need. Nipped to the Croyde Bay Farm Shop, a five-minute stroll away, for their legendary bacon, eggs from local hens, and those fat, juicy sausages. My attempt at a full Devon fry-up? Let’s just say the bacon was spot-on, but the eggs turned into a bit of a scramble – literally. Laughing over my fried disaster with a cuppa, overlooking the beach, felt like pure bliss. Self-reflection moment: I’m rubbish in the kitchen under holiday pressure, but who cares when you’ve got views like that?

Lunches were beach picnic affairs – grabbed pasties from the village bakery, steaming hot with proper flaky pastry stuffed with steak and spuds. Evenings meant more pub crawls: The Sands across the road for seafood platters piled high with prawns, mussels, and crab claws, all washed down with a crisp white from their decent wine list. One night, we tried cooking again – fresh mackerel from a beachside fisherman, simply grilled with lemon and herbs from the farm shop. Turned out ace, actually, served on the balcony as the sun set over the surf.

No trip’s complete without a market trawl – Braunton’s just a short hop up the road, bursting with stalls of local cheeses, fudge, and Devon cider doughnuts that had us queuing like kids. We loaded up on smoked fish and artisan bread for a lazy beach feast. Honestly, staying put in Croyde, fuelling up on all this grub, felt like the perfect reset. Who needs fancy holidays when you’ve got pubs, markets, and a kitchen begging for local loot? We left fatter, happier, and already plotting the next one.