I’ll never forget the drive down to Braunton in North Devon – we’d packed the car to the brim with cool bags of groceries, excited for a proper family getaway in a cracking detached house we’d booked. But about halfway there, disaster struck: I’d forgotten to check the tyre pressures, and we got a puncture just past Barnstaple. Sat on the hard shoulder for an hour waiting for the AA, with the kids moaning about missing lunch. Still, once we were back on track, the anticipation built – rolling hills giving way to those lush Devon lanes, and the promise of unwinding in a quiet village spot had us buzzing.

Pulling up to the house, my first impressions were spot on. It’s this beautiful detached place tucked away in peaceful Braunton, all spacious and welcoming, like it was made for lazy family holidays. We walked straight into the huge kitchen – an absolute dream with every gadget under the sun for whipping up feasts, plus a dining area and a cosy snug with doors spilling out to the garden. Down the hall, there’s a quiet sitting room for reading and a games room to keep the little ones happy with pool and table tennis. Pure bliss.

Food was the star of our stay, no question. First night, I fancied playing masterchef in that massive kitchen. We’d stopped at Braunton’s local market on the way – stalls groaning with fresh Devon crab, plump strawberries from nearby farms, and artisan cheeses that smelled like heaven. Grabbed some local cider too. I attempted a seafood linguine with the crab, chucking in garlic, chilli, and a splash of cream. Turned out alright, if a bit overcooked – the kids devoured it anyway, and we washed it down in the snug, feet up, garden doors open to the evening breeze. Laughed about my puncture woes over seconds.

Next morning, breakfast was a proper spread: local sausages and bacon from the village butcher (picked up rashers that morning), eggs scrambled silky in the huge pan, and thick slices of toast from a fresh loaf. We ambled down to The Maddening Crow pub, just a short walk away – classic North Devon boozer with beams (sorry, couldn’t resist) and the best fish and chips I’ve had in ages. Crispy batter, fat chips, mushy peas on the side. The kids had burgers, and we split a sticky toffee pudding that was pure indulgence.

Evenings became a ritual of pub crawls within Braunton’s cosy radius. The George Inn did a cracking Sunday roast – tender beef, Yorkshire puds like clouds, all the trimmings. I tried my hand at a Devon pasty one afternoon, using market veg and steak from the greengrocers, but it came out more like a wonky pie. Hilarious fail, but we ate it in the garden, pretending it was gourmet. Self-reflection hit me there, munching away: I’m no chef, but there’s something dead satisfying about faffing in a holiday kitchen, surrounded by family, no rush.

Last day, we hit the market again for picnic odds and ends – pork pies, scones with clotted cream – and lunched at a tiny café near the village green. Simple, hearty stuff that sums up North Devon: fresh, unfussy, and utterly memorable. Left with full bellies and a vow to return for more kitchen disasters and pub classics. What a holiday.