I’ll never forget the drive down to Wexford – we’d set off from Dublin full of beans, sandwiches packed and the sat-nav promising a smooth two-hour jaunt. But no, halfway there, I took a wrong turn onto some narrow lane that looked like it hadn’t seen tarmac since the Troubles. We ended up in a field, arguing over whose fault it was (mine, obviously), with sheep staring at us like we were the eejits. A quick reverse and a U-turn later, we were back on track, laughing it off with the windows down and the sea air whipping in.

Pulling into Tacumshane village, my heart lifted – those first impressions were spot on. This detached barn conversion we’d booked looked proper inviting, all contemporary with a refreshing vibe that screamed family getaway. Stepping through the lovely entrance, we were hit with this open-plan sitting area: mismatched couches begging you to flop down, and a charming wood burner ready for cosier nights. The light and airy feel made it instantly soothing. The stylish kitchen had this almost country theme, dead homely, and the dining area right next was perfect for lingering over meals. Spacious layout too – no tripping over each other, which is a win with kids.

Food was the absolute star of our stay, honestly. We’d barely unpacked when I fancied a proper Irish fry to kick things off. The kitchen was kitted out brilliantly – I rustled up bacon, sausages, black and white pudding from the local Spar in the village, fried eggs till they were just right, and even attempted soda bread (it was more like a doorstop, but we scoffed it anyway). Sat at that dining table with tea steaming, overlooking the quiet garden, it felt like proper holiday magic. Light humour in my cooking disasters kept us giggling – next morning, my attempt at boxty pancakes turned into weird fritters, but slathered in butter and served with rashers, they went down a treat.

We couldn’t resist the pubs nearby either – Tacumshane’s got a couple of gems within walking distance. Popped into one for lunch the first day: fresh fish chowder that was thick and creamy, packed with local hake and mussels, followed by a pint of Guinness that slid down like velvet. The barman reckoned the seafood came straight from Wexford’s coast, no more than a few miles off. Evenings, we’d wander back after cooking up a storm – one night I tried a Wexford lamb stew in the kitchen, slow-cooked with carrots and spuds from the market stall we found in the village. It was a revelation; tender meat falling off the bone, herbs making it sing. Paired with a bottle of decent red from the offie, and we were in heaven around the wood burner.

The real highlight was the weekly market in nearby Wellingtonbridge, just a short hop away. We loaded up on artisan cheeses, Wexford strawberries (even in autumn, they were lush), and wheels of that creamy Cashel Blue. Back at the barn, we’d graze on cheese boards in the sitting area or whip up pasta with local smoked salmon. One self-reflective moment hit me mid-market haggle: staring at the fresh produce, I realised how often I rush meals back home. Here, every bite felt unhurried, shared, proper nourishing for the soul as much as the belly.

Pub crawls rounded it off – another spot did the best seafood platter I’ve had: oysters plump and briny, crab claws sweet as sin. We’d stumble back stuffed and happy, collapsing on those couches. If you’re after a Wexford escape where the food leads the way, this is it. Pure bliss.