I’ll never forget the drive down to Weymouth – we’d set off from Bristol full of beans, sandwiches packed, but about halfway there, disaster struck. The sat-nav decided to have a midlife crisis and sent us on a detour through some winding lanes that felt like they hadn’t seen tarmac since the war. We ended up in a tiny village, arguing over whether to trust the phone’s map or just follow the seagulls. Half an hour late, but laughing about it, we finally rolled into town, hearts lifting at the sight of the sea sparkling under that classic Dorset sun. As we pulled up right by the beach, my first glimpse of the place had me grinning like an idiot – a beautifully styled duplex apartment on the ground and lower ground floor, just paces from the sand. Up a few steps, and we stepped into this light and airy living/dining room with stunning sea views. The waves rolling in, beachgoers strolling by – it was pure holiday magic, and that dining table screamed “gather round for feasts!”

From the off, food took centre stage. We’d barely unpacked when the aroma of chips from the beachfront stalls wafted in, tempting us out for fish and proper mushy peas. Weymouth’s seafood is legendary, isn’t it? That first evening, we wandered to the harbour, just a stone’s throw away, and grabbed the freshest cod and chips from one of those no-frills stalls. Crispy batter, flaky fish, and a splash of vinegar – perfection. Sat on the sea wall, watching the boats bob, it felt like the ideal welcome.

Next morning, anticipation bubbled as we hit the local market on St Mary Street. What a gem – stalls groaning under fresh crab, lobster, plump strawberries from nearby farms, and artisan breads that smelled divine. I haggled a bit for some mackerel (felt proper local) and a punnet of local tomatoes, dreaming of a beachside barbecue. Back at the apartment, with its handy kitchen setup, we had a right go at cooking. Me, the self-proclaimed chef, attempted a seafood linguine. Let’s just say the pasta stuck to the pan like glue, and the garlic levels could’ve cleared the beach – a proper comedy of errors! We salvaged it with a cheeky bottle of Dorset cider from the offy, and laughing over our burnt bits around that dining table, it turned into the best meal ever. Gentle self-reflection there: holidays remind you it’s not about perfection, but the mess and the mates.

Pub grub kept us going too. The Royal Oak, a cosy spot nearby, did a cracking Sunday roast – juicy beef, Yorkshire puds the size of saucers, all with a sea view. Evenings blurred into pints at the Brewhouse, where we devoured platters of local cheeses, smoked mackerel pâté, and those addictive pork scratchings. One night, we tried our hand at a full English in the apartment, sourcing bacon from the market’s butcher – thick rashers, proper black pudding, and eggs fried in the dripping. Blimey, it beat any café hands down.

Weymouth’s food scene is a proper treat for greedy guts like me. Markets for fresh picks, pubs for hearty plates, and our little kitchen experiments tying it all together. By the end of the week, stuffed and happy, I was already plotting the next trip. If you’re after seaside charm with a side of superb scran, this is the spot.