I finally made it to that cosy little semi-detached cottage just outside Ballinderreen after a bit of a faff on the drive from Galway. I'd taken a wrong turn somewhere near Kinvara – typical me, too busy humming along to some trad tunes on the radio to watch the signs properly – and ended up looping back through a few narrow lanes with sheep giving me the side-eye. But as I pulled up to the single-storey place perched on the edge of Brandy Harbour inlet, overlooking those moody Burren Mountains, all that stress melted away. The sea air hit me first, briny and inviting, and the open-plan living space inside looked perfect for kicking back. Two decent bedrooms off to the side, and that solid fuel stove in the sitting area just begging for a lazy evening.

I couldn't wait to settle in and get stuck into the local grub – this is Oyster Country, after all, and I'd heard the seafood around here is second to none. First stop that afternoon was a quick wander down to the village for supplies. Ballinderreen's got this brilliant little market vibe on weekends, stalls heaving with fresh oysters straight from Galway Bay, plump prawns, and wheels of tangy cheese from nearby farms. I grabbed a dozen oysters, some smoked mackerel, and a loaf of soda bread that was still warm. Back at the cottage, I fired up the well-equipped kitchen for my grand cooking debut. Shucking oysters? Easier said than done. One slipped and pinged across the counter like a naughty marble – cue me on my hands and knees, giggling at my own incompetence. But I managed to grill a few with a squeeze of lemon, and paired them with the bread slathered in butter. Sat at the table watching the sun dip over the harbour, it felt like proper holiday magic. Simple, fresh, and miles better than any restaurant.

Evenings were all about the pubs within easy striking distance – nothing too far, just a short hop to places like Sexton's in nearby Kilcolgan. Pints of creamy Guinness and plates of fish and chips that arrived piping hot, the batter crispy as you like. One night, I went for the seafood chowder, thick with chunks of haddock, mussels, and those local oysters, served with wheaten bread that soaked up every bit of the broth. The barman recommended a side of colcannon – mash with kale and spring onions – and it was spot on, hearty without being heavy. We chatted with a few locals about the best spots for crab claws, and I made a mental note for the next day.

My cooking attempts ramped up mid-week. A market run scored me crab meat, new potatoes, and wild garlic. I tried a crab salad in the cottage kitchen, tossing it with mayo and herbs, but let's just say it was more 'rustic' than restaurant-ready – a bit lumpy, but washed down with a crisp white from the offie, it hit the spot. Reflecting on it now, that's the joy of these escapes: no rush, no perfection needed. Just you, good food, and the west coast rhythm. Pushed myself out of my usual takeaway rut, and came home with a few recipes scribbled on napkins.

Last supper was pub grub at a spot overlooking the bay – succulent Galway hookers (that's the oysters, not a cheeky pint), followed by a sticky toffee pudding I didn't need but couldn't resist. That cottage was the ideal base for it all: cook, pub, repeat. If you're after a foodie's bolt-hole, this stretch of Galway Bay delivers in spades.