I’ll never forget the drive down to Minehead – we’d packed the car to the gills with posh ingredients for a proper self-catering holiday, dreaming of lazy mornings with fresh brews and evenings firing up the hot tub. But halfway there, just past Taunton, the sat-nav decided to have a midlife crisis and sent us on a detour through some winding lanes that felt like they were auditioning for a horror film. Branches scraping the roof, cows staring us down – classic me, cursing my phone signal under my breath. Still, we arrived just as the sun dipped behind North Hill, hearts racing a bit from the adventure, and oh boy, what a first impression. Perched up above the town, this spacious, luxurious annexe unfolded before us with its cracking outdoor space, those views over Minehead and the hills stretching out like a postcard. We cracked open a bottle of Somerset cider right there on the terrace, toasting our survival.

From the off, it was all about the food – none of that rushed tourist malarkey, just proper nosh and pub crawls within easy strolling distance. First morning, I pottered down to the high street for the Minehead market, which pops up midweek and is a goldmine for local treats. I nabbed some crumbly Exmoor Blue cheese, fat tomatoes still warm from the vine, and a punnet of strawberries that tasted like summer itself. Back at the annexe, I fancied myself a MasterChef, whipping up a massive breakfast fry-up with local bacon from the butchers – rashers so thick they curled at the edges – and eggs from a farm stall. It was a right mess; the yolks splattered everywhere because I got cocky with the flip, but paired with doorstep toast slathered in clotted cream? Divine. Sat out on that terrace with the hill views, it felt like we’d cracked the holiday code.

Evenings were pub heaven. The first night, we ambled down to The Beach Hotel, just a hop from the annexe, for fish and chips that were proper – flaky cod in crispy batter, mushy peas on the side, and a pint of Otter Ale that slid down a treat. The guv’nor recommended their specials board, loaded with West Country seafood caught that day. Next evening, we tried The Old Ship, cosy as anything with its low ceilings and chatty locals. I went for the lamb shank, slow-cooked till it fell off the bone, drowned in gravy with mash that was fluffier than my nan’s meringues. We laughed about my cooking disasters over sticky toffee pudding – mine had come out more like concrete the night before, a gentle reminder that I’m better at eating than cheffing.

One rainy afternoon, we hunkered down with a haul from the market: plump sausages, fresh bread, and a wheel of cheddar. I attempted a ploughman’s that somehow turned into a gourmet picnic on the terrace under the hot tub’s shelter – bubbles going as we munched, rain pattering away. It got me reflecting, you know? In the rush of life back home, we never slow down for meals like this, savouring every bite with mates and those epic views. By the end of the week, bellies full from pub roasts and my half-decent pasta attempts (garlic prawns with local cider reduction – nailed it second time), we were proper converts to this foodie corner of Somerset. If you’re after a holiday where the eating’s as good as the scenery, get yourself up North Hill. Pure bliss.