I’ll never forget the drive down to North Devon last month – we’d packed the car with enough snacks to feed a small army, but about halfway there, just past Barnstaple, the sat nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us on a detour through some winding lanes that had me white-knuckling the wheel. “Are we lost or on an adventure?” my mate Dave quipped, as we narrowly avoided a rogue sheep. But honestly, by the time we crested that hill and spotted the sea glittering below Woolacombe, all was forgiven. The anticipation built as we wound down to the coast – sandy beaches stretching out, waves crashing, and that fresh sea air hitting us like a promise of pure relaxation.

Pulling up to our cosy beachfront apartment, right by the shore with its welcoming, lived-in vibe and those massive windows framing the ocean view, I felt an instant grin spread across my face. First impressions? Spot on. It was the perfect spot for us three mates and the dog, who went mental sniffing every blade of grass. We dumped the bags and cracked open a beer on the balcony, toasting to no alarm clocks for a week.

From the off, it was all about the food – or should I say, our heroic attempts at it. The first evening, we fancied playing MasterChef in the well-kitted kitchen. I’d spotted a greengrocers in Mortehoe village on the way in, just a short stroll away, piled high with local spuds, carrots straight from Devon soil, and the freshest mackerel you could imagine. We grabbed some, plus a couple of pasties from the bakery next door – proper ones, flaky pastry oozing steak and veg. Back at the flat, Dave took charge of the grill while I butchered the fish. Disaster struck when the smoke alarm went off mid-pan-fry (note to self: ventilation is key), but we salvaged it with a heroic splash of cider from the offy. Sat out on the balcony as the sun dipped, tucking into charred-but-tasty mackerel with buttery new pots and a side of those pasties – simple, salty perfection. Laughed till we cried about my filleting skills, or lack thereof.

Next day, we hit the Woolacombe Bay market, a proper little gem just down the road on a sunny Saturday. Stalls groaning under clotted cream fudge, artisan cheeses from nearby farms, and piles of crab claws caught that morning. We loaded up on sausages from a local butcher – thick, herby bangers that we grilled that night with market veg. But the real stars were the pubs. The Woolacombe Bay Hotel’s pub does a cracking fish and chips, beer-battered cod the size of a flip-flop, with mushy peas that hit the spot after a beach walk. We washed it down with a pint of Otter Ale, chatting with locals about the best surf spots.

Evenings blurred into pub crawls – the Thatch at Mortehoe for a ploughman’s with crumbly Cheddar and pickled onions, or nipping back to cook up a storm with our market hauls. One night, I tried my hand at a Devon cream tea, slathering scones with jam and cream from the grocer’s. Messy, but marvellous. Reflecting on it now, amid the chaos of smoke alarms and sand in the sarnies, it was those shared meals that made it – proper mates’ grub, no pretensions, just good nosh and better company. North Devon’s got that magic for food lovers; I’m already plotting the next trip.