I’ll never forget the drive up to Enniskillen – we’d set off from Belfast full of beans, sandwiches packed, but about halfway, the sat-nav decided to have a midlife crisis and sent us down a winding lane that looked more like a sheep track. Cue mild panic as we reversed past a farmer giving us the side-eye, but honestly, it just added to the craic. By the time we rolled up to this charming detached cottage just outside town, I was buzzing with anticipation – would it live up to the pics? Mate, it exceeded them. Snug single-storey vibes, right by the river with countryside stretching out forever, perfect for our little group of mates. First impressions? Spot on – we cracked open a few tins on the patio, toasting the view.

Food was the absolute star of our stay, though. Enniskillen’s got this proper foodie heart, and being so close meant we could wander into town for fresh picks without breaking a sweat. First morning, we hit the local market by the castle – stalls groaning under Ulster fry ingredients, soda farls still warm from the griddle, and the creamiest local cheeses you’ve ever tasted. I grabbed a load of black pudding, rashers, and eggs, dreaming of a champion fry-up. Back at the cottage, my cooking attempt was... enthusiastic. I nailed the tattie bread, but the eggs? More like scrambled rubber. We laughed it off with tea and a side of self-reflection – turns out I’m better at eating than chefing, a lesson I’ve needed for years.

Pub grub took over from there. The first evening, we ambled to a cosy spot in town – think low ceilings, real ales on tap, and plates of champ loaded with spring onions, paired with pan-fried hake straight from Lough Erne. Divine. I went back the next day solo for fish and chips that were so crisp and flaky, I nearly proposed to the plate. The portions! Generous doesn’t cover it – we rolled home stuffed, plotting the next feast. Evenings were for self-catered wins: I rustled up a decent stew with market veg, lamb from a nearby butcher, and herbs pinched from the cottage garden. Added a splash of that peaty Bushmills we’d snaffled from a offy, and it was restaurant-worthy. My mate tried baking wheaten bread – flat as a pancake, but slathered in butter and local jam, it hit the spot.

One highlight was the riverside café just down the lane – bacon baps for brekkie that had us moaning in delight, and crab claws in garlic butter for lunch that tasted like summer on a plate. We even did a “gourmet night” with cheeses, chutneys, and a bottle of Tyrone red from the market. Light-hearted disasters aside – like the time I over-salted the colcannon and we all puckered up like lemons – it was pure joy. Staying put in that cottage let us focus on these simple, brilliant eats, swapping stories over pints in snug pubs like The Clock or The Castle Arms. Left me pondering how often we rush holidays, missing the magic in a good meal shared slow. If you’re after a feed-focused escape in Fermanagh, this is your spot – I’m already plotting a return for more.