I’ll never forget the drive to our little holiday cottage in County Kerry – we’d taken the scenic route from Killarney, winding through those impossibly green valleys, when suddenly the sat-nav decided to have a midlife crisis and sent us down a narrow lane that was more sheep superhighway than road. There I was, white-knuckling the wheel, dodging woolly pedestrians, while my other half laughed and snapped photos of startled lambs. Twenty minutes later, we emerged, a bit frazzled but buzzing with anticipation. What if it was a damp disappointment? But no – pulling up to this beautifully quaint, detached cottage nestled in the Gap of Dunloe, just 1.5 miles from Beaufort, we were smitten straight away. The place wrapped us in cosy furnishings and modern touches that screamed 'home away from home', with three comfy bedrooms, a well-equipped kitchen-diner, and a sitting room begging for a roaring fire.

First things first, we unpacked and raided the kitchen for a slap-up arrival feast. I’d fancied myself a chef that week, so off we trundled to Beaufort’s local market – a proper gem, just a short drive away, bursting with Kerry’s finest. Fresh soda bread still warm from the oven, wheels of tangy cheddar from nearby farms, and the plumpest strawberries you’ve ever seen. I grabbed some smoked salmon too, dreaming of a gourmet platter. Back at the cottage, my cooking attempt was... enthusiastic. I sliced the bread unevenly (rustic charm, I called it), slathered on butter, and paired it with that salmon. It was messy, but washed down with a pot of strong tea by the fire, it hit the spot. We chuckled over my wonky knife skills – clearly, MasterChef isn’t calling.

The real joy was the pubs, though. That evening, we wandered into a cosy spot in Beaufort, the kind with low ceilings and locals who greet you like old mates. I went for the seafood chowder – thick, creamy, packed with chunks of fresh hake and prawns straight from the Atlantic. My partner demolished a plate of lamb shanks, slow-cooked till they fell off the bone, with champ mash that was pure comfort. Pints of creamy Guinness flowed, and we swapped stories with a table of regulars about the best black pudding in Kerry. “Yours tomorrow,” they winked, and sure enough, next market run delivered smoky slices that I fried up for breakfast. My second culinary disaster? Over-ambitious boxty pancakes – they turned into potato fritters, but drowned in Kerrygold butter and a fried egg, they were forgivable.

We repeated the routine: morning markets for crab claws and wheaten bread, afternoons attempting cottage pies in the kitchen (mine resembled a landslide, but tasted grand), evenings in snug pubs like the one by the bridge, where the fish and chips came with mushy peas that transported me straight to chippy heaven. One night, after a particularly boozy session of storytelling over bowls of Irish stew – tender beef, carrots, and that herby gravy – I had a quiet moment by the fire. Staring into the flames, I realised this wasn’t just about the food; it was the simple rhythm of foraging local treats, faffing in the kitchen, and sharing plates with strangers who felt like friends. In a world of rushed meals, it was blissfully restorative.

By week’s end, stomachs full and hearts content, we were already plotting a return. Kerry’s food scene had us hooked – who knew a cottage break could turn you into such a contented glutton?