I’ll never forget the drive down to Somerset last month – we’d packed the car with enough cheese, bread and wine to see us through a siege, only for the sat-nav to chuck a wobbly just past Taunton. It rerouted us through some narrow lanes that had me gripping the wheel like it was a lifeline, convinced we’d end up in a hedge. But as we crested the hill into Blue Anchor, all that stress melted away. There it was, our little holiday apartment perched up high, with those sweeping coastal views that hit you right in the chest. The sun was dipping low, painting the sea gold, and I could already taste the chips in the air from the beach café below.

First impressions? Spot on. The place was cosy and spotless, with a kitchen that whispered promises of lazy breakfasts and maybe – just maybe – a stab at something more ambitious. We dumped the bags and legged it down to the beach for a proper welcome pint at one of the two pubs right there in the village. The Bay View, I think it was, had this cracking fish and chips that came with mushy peas so good they deserved their own postcode. Crispy batter, flaky cod, and vinegar sharp enough to wake the dead. We sat outside watching the waves, chatting to a couple of locals about the West Somerset steam train chugging past – apparently, it’s a rite of passage, but we were too knackered to chase it that evening.

Next morning, those sunrise views from the balcony had us up early(ish), brewing tea and cracking open some eggs I’d snaffled from a farm shop en route. My attempt at Somerset rarebit – cheese on toast with a splash of cider – was a triumph, if I say so myself, though I did burn the first batch. Self-reflection moment: I’m no chef, but holidays like this make me pretend I am, and it’s oddly therapeutic. We wandered to the seaside café for elevenses – their cream teas are legendary, sconces still warm, clotted cream thicker than my accent after a few bevvies, and strawberry jam that tasted like summer in a jar.

Lunch was a picnic on the beach, cobbled from the village shop’s bounty: pasties stuffed with proper West Country beef, pork scratchings for that naughty crunch, and local cider that went down far too easily. Afternoon saw us ambling to the other pub for a ploughman’s – cheddar so tangy it could curdle milk from across the room, crusty bread, pickle that packed a punch, and a pint of bitter to wash it down. I tried my hand at dinner back at the flat: a seafood linguine with prawns from Minehead’s market (just a quick drive away), chucked in with garlic, chilli and a lemon I’d zested to within an inch of its life. It wasn’t MasterChef, but paired with the sunset view, it felt gourmet.

Evenings blurred into pub crawls between the two locals, sampling ales brewed nearby – one had this malty stout that paired perfectly with their steak and ale pie, pastry flaking like autumn leaves. We hit the beach café again for ice creams that dripped faster than our resolve to diet. Reflecting on it now, this trip was less about grand adventures and more about savouring the simple feast of it all – the food, the views, the easy rhythm of village life. Blue Anchor fed us body and soul, and I’m already plotting a return for more of the same.