I’ll never forget the drive to our holiday lodge near Killorglin – we’d set off from Dublin full of beans, dreaming of Kerry’s wild coasts, only for the sat-nav to chuck us into a cheeky detour through some narrow lanes that had us white-knuckling it past sheep and the odd startled farmer. A classic case of my over-optimism about “scenic routes”; we arrived a tad later than planned, but boy, was it worth it. Pulling up to this modern lodge, perfectly tucked away for coastal jaunts and countryside rambles, my first impression was pure delight – it screamed cosy retreat, with that open-plan living space begging for evenings by the wood burner. Ideal spot for us two, though it’d suit a small family no bother.

Anticipation bubbled as we unpacked, but it was the kitchen that really hooked me. Stocked with basics, it felt like an invitation to play house amid Kerry’s bounty. First stop that afternoon? The local market in Killorglin, just a short hop away. I loaded up on fresh crab from Castlemaine Harbour – sweet, meaty claws that practically jumped into the bag – plus some earthy spuds and a wedge of tangy Dingle cheese. Back at the lodge, I fancied myself a chef, attempting a crab salad with lemon and herbs. It was... enthusiastic, let’s say. More shell than success, with bits flying everywhere, but washed down with a sneaky Guinness from the fridge, it tasted like victory. Laughing at my own mess, I reflected on how these daft kitchen fails are what make holidays stick – a reminder I’m better at eating than prepping.

Evenings revolved around pubs, naturally. The first night, we wandered to a snug spot in the village, all low ceilings and chatty locals nursing pints of Murphy’s. I went for the seafood chowder – thick, creamy, brimming with prawns and chunks of white fish straight from the sea. It warmed us through as rain pattered outside, and we swapped stories with a Kerryman about the best catches off Cromane Strand, just six miles down the road. Next day, buoyed by that, we hit the beach for a bracing walk, golden sands stretching out, waves crashing invitingly. Splashed about a bit, but hunger soon drove us back for lunch at another nearby pub. Their fish and chips? Golden batter, flaky cod, mushy peas on the side – proper comfort, with vinegar sharp enough to wake the dead.

Markets became our ritual. On Saturday, we nabbed smoked mackerel from a stall, plus black pudding and soda bread for a fry-up attempt back home. Mine was a greasy triumph (for once), sizzling on the hob while we cracked open Kerry Pippin cider. One evening, we pushed the boat out at a coastal eatery near the strand – oysters on the half-shell, briny and fresh, followed by lamb stew slow-cooked with local roots. Pub crawls filled the gaps: one with live trad music and platters of prawns in garlic butter; another with veggie pasties that even won over my meat-loving self.

By week’s end, stuffed and content, I realised this lodge wasn’t just a base – it was a launchpad for Kerry’s food soul. Simple joys like market hauls and pub feasts beat fancy holidays hands down. We left fuller in every sense, already plotting a return.