I’ll never forget the drive down to southern County Wexford – we’d packed the car to the gills with kids’ toys, wellies, and enough snacks to feed a small army, only for the sat-nav to chuck a wobbly just outside Enniscorthy. It insisted we take a “scenic route” that turned out to be a narrow lane flanked by hedges taller than our estate car, complete with a rogue sheep blocking the way. Picture me, reversing gingerly while the other half yells directions from Google Maps on her phone. Classic us – turning a three-hour journey into a four-hour comedy of errors. But as we crested the final hill, hearts lifting with that holiday buzz, there it was: our detached cottage nestled in two acres of rolling fields, looking every bit the cosy haven we’d been dreaming of.

First impressions? Pure magic. The place screamed family-friendly charm – spacious inside, with a massive kitchen/diner that could handle our chaotic meal preps, a comfy sitting room for collapsing into after days out, and a sun room that begged for lazy afternoons with a book and a cuppa. Sleeping eight, it was spot-on for our lot (though we only filled three bedrooms), and its spot near Kilmore village felt just right – close enough for a wander, far enough for proper peace.

We wasted no time settling in. Day one, we pottered about the garden, kids charging around like feral puppies while we cracked open a bottle of wine in the sun room, watching the light dance over the fields. Breakfasts became a ritual: frying up rashers and eggs on the ample cooker, spilling orange juice everywhere in the ensuing scramble for seats at that big dining table. It was cottage life at its messiest – flour-dusted counters from soda bread attempts (mine turned out more like doorstops), but oh, the laughs.

Venturing out kept things simple and local. A short hop to Kilmore Quay harbour had us crabbing off the pier, buckets brimming with tiny green monsters that the kids released with dramatic flair. We wandered the sandy stretches of Kilmore Beach, building lopsided castles that the tide claimed before lunch. Evenings? Back for board games in the sitting room, rain pattering on the windows – pure hygge, Irish-style. One afternoon, we hit the nearby coastal paths for a bracing walk, spotting seals bobbing in the waves and picking blackberries that ended up in a slightly lumpy crumble.

There was this quiet moment of self-reflection on the third evening, sat in the sun room as the sun dipped low. The other half and I, kids finally knackered upstairs, shared a pot of tea. Holidays like this make you realise how the small stuff – a shared giggle over burnt toast, the warmth of a cluttered kitchen – stitches us tighter than any grand adventure. Sure, we’re not perfect parents (witness the epic Lego-strewn battlefield we left behind), but in that Wexford calm, it all felt just right. No frills, just us, the cottage chaos, and fields stretching to forever. We’re already plotting a return – mishap-prone journey and all.