I’ll never forget the drive down to North Devon – we’d set off from Bristol full of beans, playlist blasting, but about halfway there, disaster struck. The satnav decided to have a midlife crisis and sent us down a narrow lane that turned into a proper mudfest after some rain. There we were, me white-knuckling the wheel, my mate Dave yelling “reverse, reverse!” while the kids in the back laughed like hyenas. Twenty minutes of reversing past bemused cows later, we finally emerged, a bit later but buzzing with that “we’ve conquered the wilds” vibe.

Pulling up to this cracking eco-friendly barn conversion tucked in a quiet spot near the Taw Estuary, I was chuffed to bits. Resting among rolling countryside views, it’s a detached gem in the village of Prixford, on a working farm, with all sorts of clever green touches like underfloor heating and rainwater harvesting. Inside, it’s got this lovely mix of character and modern flair – think stylish kitchen/diner that’s a dream for self-catering, complete with granite worktops, oak panelling, a cracking range cooker, gas hob, dishwasher, coffee maker, and all the bits you need to rustle up a feast.

First impressions? Spot on. We arrived starving, so straight into the kitchen for bacon butties and brews, the anticipation of a week of proper nosh melting away any travel stress. That kitchen became our HQ – I fancied myself as a telly chef, attempting a full English breakfast the next morning. Sausages from the local farm shop in Braunton (just a quick hop away), eggs sizzling on the hob, but I overdid the black pudding and it turned into a hockey puck. The family still wolfed it down, bless ’em, and we chuckled over the burnt bits.

Food drove our whole trip, honestly. We mooched to the weekly market in nearby Barnstaple, piling the car with fresh Devon crab, artisan cheeses, and those fat, juicy pasties from the stallholders who’ve been at it for generations. Back at the lodge, dinner was a seafood extravaganza – crab claws cracked open with a proper mallet from the drawer, dipped in mayo I whipped up (success!), washed down with local Otter Ale. Dave nailed a steak one night on the range cooker, though I won points for my nan’s crumble recipe, using apples from a farm pick-your-own just down the lane.

Pubs were the heartbeat of it all. The Duke of York in nearby Shirwell was a belter – proper old-school boozer with beams (well, you know), where we scoffed fish and chips that were crispier than my attempts at home. Pints of Exmoor Gold, chatty locals sharing farm tales, and a ploughman’s lunch that could feed an army. Evenings, we’d wander to The Exeter Inn in Prixford, right on the doorstep, for creamy Devonshire cider and bowls of mussels that tasted straight from the estuary. One night, after too many ales, I tried recreating their sticky toffee pudding – total fail, more like gluey toffee soup, but it sparked a right laugh and some gentle soul-searching: maybe I’m better at eating than cooking.

Reflecting on it now, that week was pure bliss – no fancy restaurants, just cracking local grub, dodgy home experiments, and pub vibes that make North Devon magic. If you’re after a foodie escape for six, this is your spot. We left fuller, happier, and plotting the next one.