We set off from Barnstaple on a sunny Thursday afternoon, the boot packed with more snacks than clothes, and the sat-nav promising a straightforward half-hour hop to Woolacombe. Somewhere near the edge of Mortehoe the road narrowed to a single track, and I confidently ignored the “passing place” sign, convinced the little red Fiesta behind us would simply vanish. Instead it didn’t, and in the resulting three-point turn I managed to wedge our front wheel in the soft grass verge. Ten minutes of gentle rocking and a very patient local in wellies later, we were free, both of us laughing so hard the sat-nav had to repeat itself twice before we found Greenbank’s gravel drive.

The cottage sat just back from the coastal path, its whitewashed walls catching the late light and the smell of salt already drifting through the open car windows. Inside, the kitchen greeted us with a scrubbed pine table, a temperamental gas hob and a fridge that hummed like an old Morris Minor. We unpacked the bits we’d grabbed from the farm shop on the edge of Braunton—thick slices of local ham, a crusty loaf and a punnet of early strawberries—and decided our first proper meal could wait until we’d explored the village.

Woolacombe’s tiny high street was only a five-minute stroll downhill, and by six o’clock the pubs were already filling with the low chatter of holidaymakers comparing sunburns. We slipped into the Ship Aground for a pint of Tribute each and a plate of proper scampi and chips, the batter still crackling when it arrived. The landlord’s dog, a hopeful Labrador called Bert, stationed himself under our table, and every so often a chip would “accidentally” find its way floor-ward. After the second pint we wandered back up the lane, the sky streaked pink, already planning a market trip for the morning.

Next day the weekly produce stall outside the lifeboat station was doing brisk business, so we came away with fresh mussels, new potatoes and a bunch of curly parsley. The plan was simple: a lazy lunch cooked in Greenbank’s galley kitchen, eaten on the little patio with a view of the waves. I managed to steam the mussels without disaster, but the parsley sauce split twice before I gave up and just poured the milky mixture over anyway. It tasted fine once the wine had gone in, and we sat there mopping up juices with yesterday’s bread, congratulating ourselves on “almost” cooking like locals.

By evening the tide was out and the sand stretched in a pale ribbon below the cottage. We wandered down with pasties from the bakery on the corner—still warm, the crimped edges perfectly crisp—and ate them sitting on the sea wall while the last surfers packed up. Later, tucked back at Greenbank with mugs of tea and the last of the strawberries, I found myself wondering why it always takes a slightly botched sauce and a grass-stained tyre to remind me how good simple food tastes when you’re not rushing anywhere.