I’ll never forget the drive up to our little holiday cottage in County Donegal – we took a wrong turn somewhere near Letterkenny, thanks to my daft insistence on trusting the sat-nav over a crumpled map, and ended up bouncing down a single-track lane that felt like it hadn’t seen tarmac since the Troubles. Hearts in mouths, we emerged unscathed into the scattered hamlet of Commeen, Cloghan, just 6.5 miles from Ballybofey, pulling up to this cracking detached cottage on the northern shore of the Bluestack Mountain countryside. From the moment we stepped inside, it was love at first sight – that bright, airy open-plan living area with double doors flung wide to the Reelin River sparkling below and those majestic Bluestack Mountains stretching out across the valley. Modern and comfy, perfect for our family crew, with spacious bedrooms (two downstairs, one with an en-suite) and a kitchen that screamed “get cooking!”

We’d been buzzing about the food scene all the way from Dublin – Donegal’s got that reputation for hearty, no-nonsense grub, and staying somewhere so self-catering meant we could dive right in. First night, I fancied myself as a proper chef in that well-equipped kitchen. Armed with local spuds and a slab of smoked haddock from Ballybofey’s Friday market (a total gem, just a quick spin away – stalls heaving with fresh veg, cheeses, and those massive Atlantic prawns), I attempted a fish chowder. It started promisingly, onions sizzling, cream bubbling, but I overseasoned it something rotten with too much parsley from the cottage herb pot. We laughed it off over bowls of salty goodness anyway, the crackling multi-fuel stove warming our toes as we sank into the sofas, valley views twinkling outside.

Next day, we hit the road for pubs – proper ones, mind, not tourist traps. O’Donnell’s in Ballybofey was first stop, a cosy wee spot with Guinness poured like liquid gold and plates of the best seafood chowder I’ve ever had, thick with mussels and chunks of cod, served with wheaten bread so fresh it steamed. We followed it with battered scampi that melted in the mouth, washed down with a pint or two. Back at the cottage, my other half took over cooking duties – she nailed a roast lamb from the local butcher’s (picked up en route, shoulder joint marbled to perfection), slathered in rosemary and garlic from that market haul. Sides of buttery champ and carrots glazed in honey – pure comfort on a plate. We ate at the table by those big doors, watching dusk settle over the river, feeling like we’d stumbled into foodie heaven.

One evening, we ventured to The Orchard Inn, not far off, for their famous Donegal stew – lamb, barley, root veg in a rich broth that warmed us from the inside out. I had a go at soda bread myself that night, using a recipe scribbled from the barman, and blimey, it wasn’t half bad, even if it was a tad on the doorstop side. Reflecting on it now, amid all that eating and supping, I realised how rare it is to slow down like that – no rush, just good food, cracking company, and the simple joy of messing about in a kitchen with a view. Our Donegal feast-fest was the holiday highlight, hands down – if you’re after a base for pub-hopping and home-cooked triumphs, this neck of the woods delivers every time.