I finally made it to Weymouth after a bit of a faff on the drive down from Bristol. The sat-nav decided to have a hissy fit just past Dorchester, sending me on a detour through some narrow lanes where I swear the hedges were closing in like a bad horror film. Heart in mouth, I pulled up outside this cracking first-floor apartment right in the heart of the town, and blimey, the first impressions were spot on. Overlooking the bustle of the high street with the sea air wafting up from the beach just a stone's throw away, it felt like instant holiday mode. I'd been buzzing about it all week, imagining lazy mornings with brekkie on the go, and stepping inside that open-plan living space, it was love at first sight – plush sofa begging to be lounged on, and a kitchen kitted out like a pro chef's dream.

First things first, I unpacked and headed straight for that fully-equipped kitchen to whip up something simple. I'd stopped at the local market on the way in – Weymouth's got this fab one on St Thomas Street, packed with fresh Dorset seafood, cheeses, and veg that smell like they've just been plucked from the soil. Snagged some plump prawns and crusty bread, and before long, I was faffing about with garlic butter, trying to channel my inner MasterChef. It wasn't half bad, if I say so myself, though I did nearly set off the smoke alarm when the butter caught a bit. Sat at the dining table with the window cracked open to the salty breeze, it was pure bliss – miles better than a soggy takeaway.

Evenings were all about the pubs, and Weymouth does them proper. Strolled down to the beachfront and popped into The Boot nearby, a proper old-school boozer with wooden tables sticky from years of good times. They do these massive platters of local fish and chips, battered cod so crispy it crunched like autumn leaves, with mushy peas that hit the spot. Washed it down with a pint of Dorset ale – smooth as you like. Next night, I fancied cooking again, so market haul number two: plump sausages from the butcher's stall and a load of seasonal spuds. Fried 'em up in the kitchen with some herbs I'd grabbed, feeling all smug and domestic. Shared a laugh with a mate over video call about my wonky knife skills – turns out I'm better at eating than chopping.

Couldn't resist the Sunday roast at The Marquis of Granby, just a hop from the apartment. Juicy lamb shank, Yorkshire puds the size of saucers, and gravy that could make you weep. We waddled back, collapsing on that sofa for a proper food coma in front of the telly. One morning, I even attempted pancakes in the kitchen – total disaster, more like crepe fritters – but slathered with local honey from the market, they were edible enough for a giggle.

Reflecting on it now, pottering around that kitchen and hopping between pubs and the market made the whole trip. It's the simple stuff – the anticipation of what you'd cook next, the warmth of a pub chatter – that sticks with you. Weymouth's food scene is a gem, unpretentious and full of flavour, and staying there felt like being let in on a tasty local secret. Can't wait to go back for more.