I’ll never forget the drive down to Dumfries and Galloway – a proper faff from the start. We’d set off from the central belt full of that giddy holiday buzz, dreaming of empty beaches and fresh sea air, only for the sat-nav to chuck us into a massive downpour just past Girvan. Cue a comedy-of-errors moment where I missed the turn for the Machars, ended up on a single-track road with hedges taller than me, and had to reverse into a passing place while a sheepdog-wielding farmer gave me the side-eye. Laugh or cry? We laughed, eventually, and arrived at our cosy bungalow in this pretty rural spot near Luce Bay’s unspoilt coast, windswept but grinning like idiots. First impressions? Magic. The place felt like a hug – compact, welcoming, with views that promised seals and seabirds out in the bay on a clear day.

From the off, it was all about the food, mind. We’d stocked up en route at a wee farm shop near Newton Stewart, grabbing local tatties, smoked mackerel from the bay, and a slab of crumbly cheddar that could’ve doubled as a doorstop. First night, I fancied myself as a proper chef, attempting a seafood chowder with some fresh mussels we’d spotted at a roadside stall. Disaster? Aye, a bit – too much cream, and it ended up tasting like a creamy soup from a tin. But we scoffed it anyway, washed down with a bottle of Bladnoch whisky we’d nabbed from their distillery just eight miles up the road. That place is a gem for a quick tour; smooth malts that sneak up on you, perfect for warming the cockles after a damp coastal walk.

Next day, we hit the local markets – there’s a cracking one in Wigtown, not far off, with stalls heaving under veg boxes bursting with neeps, carrots straight from Galloway soil, and the fattest black pudding you’ve ever seen. I loaded up on venison sausages and a loaf of soda bread, then back to the bungalow for round two of cooking heroics. This time, a fry-up supreme: local eggs from a honesty box farm gate, bacon rashers thick as your thumb, and mushrooms foraged from a nearby trail (well, bought from the market, but who’s counting?). It was proper heart-attack stuff, but blooming delicious, eaten on the patio with gulls wheeling over Luce Bay. We even spotted a seal bobbing about – or was it a turtle? Who knows, but it made the calories worthwhile.

Evenings were pub time, naturally. The Machars has these cracking locals, like the one in Port William, a short hop away. Proper no-frills spots with real ales on tap and blackboards scrawled with the day’s catch: pan-fried haddock with chips that crunch like they should, or Cullen skink so creamy it’s basically a hug in a bowl. One night, I went rogue and ordered the haggis bonbons – crispy outside, melt-in-the-mouth inside, with a whisky gravy that had us both moaning in delight. Sat by the fire, chatting with locals about the best bays for dog walks (ours loved the sandy coves), it felt like slipping into someone else’s life.

Looking back, that week was a gentle nudge: I’m no MasterChef, but faffing about in a holiday kitchen with good ingredients beats posh nosh any day. We left heavier, happier, and already plotting a return for more of Galloway’s grubby glories. If you’re after a feed-focused escape, this corner of Scotland’s your spot.