I’ll never forget the drive down to Wexford – we’d piled into the car in Dublin full of excitement, sandwiches packed and the sat-nav promising a smooth three hours. But about halfway, disaster struck: a rogue sheep decided to play chicken with us on a narrow lane near Enniscorthy. Heart in my mouth, I swerved just in time, only for us to end up with a muddy verge souvenir on the tyres. Still, it broke the ice with a few laughs, and by the time we trundled into Kilrane, the anticipation was bubbling over. What a spot – this traditional caravan tucked away in a wildflower meadow, with its own driveway for easy parking. First impressions? Spot on. Cosy single-storey vibe, welcoming as a hug from an old mate.

Stepping inside, the living/dining room hit us with that perfect holiday glow – gas fire ready to roar on chillier nights, and a kitchen that screamed “get cooking!”. I’d fancied myself the designated chef this trip, eyeing the air fryer like it was a superpower. We unloaded bags stuffed with local bits from a quick stop at Rosslare’s market – fresh soda bread, plump Wexford strawberries, and a slab of smoked mackerel that smelled like the sea itself.

First night, we kept it simple: I bunged some spuds and black pudding in the air fryer (nod to the Irish staples), paired with buttery cabbage from the veg stall. Washed down with a bottle of decent plonk from the Eurospar just up the road. The dining table became our command centre, plates clattering as we swapped stories. Not gourmet, mind, but proper comforting grub after that sheep escapade.

Next morning, we wandered the 1.7 miles to Rosslare Harbour – easy stroll along lanes lined with blackberries. The fish market there is a gem: glistening prawns, crab claws begging to be cracked. I grabbed a load for lunch, dreaming of scampi. Back at the caravan, my “chef” ambitions hit a snag – overdid the garlic butter, turned the kitchen into a fumy haze. Cue much waving tea towels and giggles. Lesson learned: less is more when you’re rustling up in unfamiliar gear. We salvaged it with fresh bread and a cheeky picnic on the beach, toes in the sand, prawns devoured before the gulls could swoop.

Evenings were pub heaven. The Buggy’s just a hop away in Kilrane – pint of Guinness, fish and chips that could win awards (crisp batter, flaky cod, mushy peas on point). Another night, we hit The Rolling Waves nearby for seafood chowder so creamy it warmed the soul, followed by sticky toffee pudding that had us scraping bowls. I even tried my hand at a full Irish breakfast one dawn – rashers sizzling in the pan, eggs poached just right in that handy kitchen. Turned out half decent, if I say so myself.

Reflecting on it now, amid the feast-fests and minor kitchen cock-ups, this Wexford caravan stay was pure magic. No fancy restaurants needed – just markets bursting with local bounty, pubs dishing soul food, and a setup that made every meal a memory. We ate like kings, laughed like loons, and left fatter and happier. If you’re after a coastal nosh-fest, this is your spot.