I’ll never forget the drive to our holiday spot in County Kerry – we’d loaded up the car in Tralee with enough snacks to feed a small army, only for the sat-nav to chuck us down a narrow lane that turned into a muddy track after a sudden downpour. Heart in mouth, I coaxed the old estate forward, convinced we’d end up bogged down like something out of a bad comedy sketch. But we emerged unscathed, and there it was: this characterful single-storey annexe tucked away in the owner’s grounds, all cosy and private, just three miles from Castleisland. First impressions? Bloody brilliant – or rather, spot on perfect. The countryside rolled out like a green welcome mat, and I could already picture lazy mornings with a cuppa on the patio.

We’d arrived buzzing with anticipation, dreaming of unwinding in this peaceful haven, and it didn’t disappoint. Being a family-friendly setup, it had everything we needed: a well-equipped kitchen that became our command centre, and space to sprawl out after days of feasting. Castleisland, that colourful market town, was our go-to for all things edible. First stop was the weekly market – stalls groaning under fresh soda bread, crumbly cheeses, and piles of Kerry lamb so tender it practically begged to be cooked. I grabbed armfuls of local spuds, smoked salmon, and a wedge of tangy farmhouse cheddar, feeling like a proper forager.

Back at the annexe, my cooking adventures kicked off with mixed results. Night one, I attempted a hearty Irish stew with the lamb and veg from the market – onions sizzling, herbs from a roadside honesty box adding that authentic whiff. It turned out grand, we scoffed it with crusty bread while the kids declared it “better than Mum’s” (cheeky monkeys). But breakfasts? Disaster zone. I tried my hand at a full fry-up with black and white pudding from the butcher’s – rashers spitting everywhere, and I somehow charred the sausages to hockey pucks. Laughing through the smoke alarm, we salvaged it with eggs from a nearby farm stall, sunny-side up and delicious. Self-reflection moment: I’m no chef, but there’s something therapeutic about faffing in a holiday kitchen, isn’t there? Makes you appreciate the simple joy of a decent meal without the daily grind.

Evenings were for Castleisland’s pubs, proper gems within easy reach. The Laurels became our local – we piled in for pints of creamy Guinness and plates of seafood chowder that warmed the cockles, thick with chunks of local fish and a dollop of cream. Another night, it was fish and chips at a no-frills spot by the river, wrapped in paper and scoffed al fresco, with the walk back digesting it all nicely. One pub did a cracking beef and Guinness pie, pastry flaky as you like, and we washed it down with live trad music that had us tapping toes despite full bellies.

Staying put in that annexe meant our holiday revolved around these foodie rituals – market hauls inspiring kitchen experiments, pub crawls fuelling tall tales. It was pure bliss, a reminder to slow down and savour the flavours of Kerry. We left heavier, happier, and already plotting a return for more mishaps and masterpieces.