I’ll never forget the drive up to Portrush – we’d piled into the car in Belfast with high hopes, the kids buzzing about beaches and ice cream, but halfway along the A2, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us on a merry detour through some back lane that looked like it hadn’t seen tarmac since the Troubles. Cue much faffing with maps on phones and a bit of light bickering, but we laughed it off, windows down, breathing in that salty sea air that promised proper Northern Irish summer vibes. By the time we rolled up, late afternoon sun glinting off the waves, my heart lifted – there it was, this cracking little holiday spot overlooking Castlerock Beach, all quaint and welcoming, the perfect base for us lot to unwind.

It’s one of those quirky reverse-level places – bedrooms on the ground floor, so you tumble out of bed straight into your unpacking, two doubles and a fun bunk room with loads of space for the kids’ beach tat. Then you head upstairs to the real star: the living area with those smashing sea views while you’re kicking back. First impressions? Spot on. We parked on the drive, dumped the bags, and I was already plotting supper, stomach rumbling from the road.

Food was the absolute highlight of our stay – honestly, it’s what turned a good holiday into a brilliant one. That first evening, we kept it simple, raiding the nearby shops for local treats: fresh soda farls, a slab of Coleraine cheddar, and some smoked mackerel from the fishmonger in Portrush. I fancied myself as a proper chef, firing up the kitchen with a slapdash seafood chowder – chucked in potatoes, cream, and a sneaky dram of Bushmills for luck. It was a right mess, half lumpy and spilling everywhere, but the family wolfed it down with crusty bread, toasting the sea view. “Not bad for a townie,” my other half quipped, and I had to chuckle – who am I kidding, I’m no Jamie Oliver.

Next day, we hit the Ramore Tavern in Portrush for lunch – oh, those fish and chips! Crispy batter, fat chips soaked in vinegar, mushy peas on the side, all with a pint of the black stuff. The place was heaving with locals, chatty as anything, and we got stuck into stories about the Giant’s Causeway catches. Evenings became a ritual: pottering to the chippy for battered sausages and curry sauce, or trying (and mostly failing) to barbecue local sausages and burgers on the patio, wind whipping everything about. One night, I attempted a full Irish breakfast upstairs, frying up rashers, puddings, and eggs – the smells wafting out to sea, or so we joked.

We nipped to the farmers’ market in Portrush too, loading up on wheaten bread, crab claws straight off the boats, and black pudding that was pure heaven pan-fried. Pub grub at The Harbour Bar was another winner – hearty bowls of champ and stovies, washed down with Guinness, while the kids demolished jelly and ice cream. It got me reflecting, sat there with a full belly watching the sun dip over the beach: in the rush of life back home, we never eat like this, proper, unhurried meals that bring everyone together. A few daft cooking disasters aside – like the time the scones turned into hockey pucks – it was bliss. If you’re after a holiday where the eating’s as good as the views, this corner of the Causeway Coast is unbeatable. We’re already plotting a return for more of the same.