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, just past Gorey, the heavens opened and we hit a proper downpour, turning the M11 into a bit of a skidpan. I gripped the wheel like my life depended on it, swearing under my breath (quietly, mind, with the kids in the back), while my other half navigated with that optimistic “it’ll clear up soon” vibe. By the time we pulled up to our semi-detached cottage on the outskirts of Enniscorthy – just 3.5 miles from the town – we were soaked but buzzing with anticipation. What a first impression, though: the place sat right next to the owner’s farmhouse on their working farm, all stylishly decked out in that perfect mix of contemporary comfort and cosy country charm. Wheelchair-accessible too, which was a thoughtful touch even if we didn’t need it. Those French doors opening onto the front garden? Pure magic for a family like ours.

We dumped the bags and beelined for the kitchen – bright, spacious, and kitted out like a chef’s dream. I fancied myself as the holiday Gordon Ramsay, so first night I attempted a roast chicken with local spuds I’d spotted at the Enniscorthy market that morning. The open fire in the sitting area was crackling away, and the smell wafting through the open-plan space had us all salivating. Disaster struck when I overdid the garlic – my youngest took one bite and declared it “vampire repellent,” which had us in stitches. Still, we polished it off with a bottle of plonk, laughing about my culinary ambitions.

Next day, we wandered into Enniscorthy for the proper foodie fix. The market was a gem – stalls heaving with fresh Wexford strawberries, artisan cheeses, and those massive, knobbly carrots that taste like they’ve been sun-kissed. I loaded up on black pudding and rashers from a local butcher, dreaming of breakfasts to come. Lunch was at a cracking pub in town, The Dunnes Stores Arms or something like that – no, wait, one of those proper old-school ones with sawdust floors and the best fish and chips this side of the Irish Sea. Crispy batter, fat chips, and mushy peas that hit the spot after our morning mishap of getting lost on the farm lanes (my navigation skills, eh?).

Evenings back at the cottage became our ritual: me muddling through pasta with market herbs while the family lounged by the fire. One night I nailed a seafood chowder using prawns from a nearby spot – creamy, packed with flavour, and miles better than my initial chicken fiasco. We paired it with soda bread from the bakery in town, slathered in butter. Pub crawls kept things lively too; just a short hop away, we hit a couple of locals for pints and platters of oysters – Wexford’s got that fresh-from-the-sea vibe, and the banter with the bar staff was gold. “You lot eating like kings!” one chap chuckled.

Looking back, that week was a gentle nudge to slow down and savour the simple joys – nothing beats faffing about in a well-stocked kitchen, surrounded by loved ones, with the farm views just outside. My cooking attempts were hit-and-miss (mostly miss), but the meals, the markets, the pub grub – they made it unforgettable. If you’re after a Wexford escape centred on good eats, this is the spot. We’re already plotting a return.