I’ll never forget the drive down to West Cork – we’d set off from Dublin full of beans, sandwiches packed and the sat-nav promising a smooth three-and-a-half hours. But oh no, about halfway, I took a wrong turn onto some narrow lane that had more cows than cars, and we ended up circling a field for 20 minutes. Classic me, always the navigator who thinks she knows better. Still, by the time we pulled up to this welcoming ground-floor apartment just outside Skibbereen, the sun was dipping low, and my heart did a little flip of anticipation. What a first impression – the place looked ever so cosy from the outside, promising lazy evenings after days of feasting.

It’s got two spacious bedrooms, each with a double and single bed, plus an en-suite shower room that made unpacking a breeze. The open-plan living area is a dream: stylish fitted kitchen flowing into a dining spot and sitting area, all warmed by a woodburning stove for those cooler nights. Perfect as a touring base for West Cork, and it sits next to another cottage – together they’d sleep eight, or ten by arrangement if you’re a bigger gang. We were just four, so it felt like our little foodie haven.

First morning, I was straight into that kitchen, determined to whip up a proper Irish breakfast. Rashers, sausages, black pudding from the local butcher in Skibbereen – I’d stocked up the night before at the Supervalu, grabbing fresh eggs and soda bread too. It was a bit of a comedy: the stove heated up unevenly, and my attempt at colcannon ended up more mash than masterpiece. Laughing over lumpy spuds, we tucked in anyway, washing it down with strong tea. That set the tone – every meal became an adventure.

We wandered into Skibbereen for the Friday market, a proper treat. Stalls groaning under cheeses from local Durrus, plump scallops from nearby bays, and wheels of Gubbeen chorizo that had us salivating. I haggled (badly) for a punnet of strawberries and some smoked mackerel, then we hit the Square for lunch at a tiny café. Their fish chowder was heavenly – creamy, packed with haddock and potatoes, with wheaten bread that soaked it up perfectly. Proper soul food.

Evenings were pub time. The first night, we ambled to a spot in town, low-beamed and buzzing with locals. Pints of Murphy’s, of course – smoother than Guinness, if you ask me – and plates of seafood chowder followed by shepherd’s pie that stuck to your ribs. Another evening, we tried our hand at dinner back home: I seared those market scallops in butter with garlic from the garden plot nearby, served with champ and a crisp salad. Turned out half decent, though I burned the edges – gentle reminder that I’m no MasterChef.

One rainy afternoon, reflecting over a stew I’d cobbled together (beef from the butcher, carrots and spuds roasted slow), I thought how these simple meals beat any fancy restaurant. No rush, just good grub, mates, and that woodburner crackling. We popped to another pub for sticky toffee pudding and more yarns with the barman about West Cork’s food scene. By week’s end, bellies full and a stone heavier (worth it), I was already plotting the next trip. If you fancy a holiday built around eating like a local, this is the spot.