I’ll never forget the drive down to Dumfries and Galloway – that stretch from the motorway onto those winding B-roads felt like a proper adventure, until I took a wrong turn just past Castle Douglas and ended up in a muddy farm lane with the sat-nav chuckling away like it knew something I didn’t. A quick reverse and a sheepish wave to the farmer who’d come out to investigate, and we were back on track, hearts racing a bit but buzzing with that holiday anticipation. By the time we pulled up, the sun was dipping low, casting this golden glow over everything, and honestly, first impressions? Spot on. The place was this gorgeous first-floor apartment in a lovingly restored stables and coach house setup – perfect for us six, with a massive open-plan sitting room and dining area flowing into a cracking kitchen, all wood floors and kitted out to the nines. Three king-size bedrooms with zip-and-link beds and en-suites? Luxury without the fuss.

We’d barely dropped the bags before raiding the kitchen for a brew, but the real fun kicked off with food, as it always does on these trips. Gatehouse of Fleet’s just a stone’s throw away, and their little weekly market on a Saturday morning became our ritual. Fresh scones still warm from the baker’s oven, local cheeses that could make you weep, and the plumpest strawberries you’ve ever seen – we stocked up like pros, arms laden with bags, plotting our feasts. Back at the apartment, I fancied myself a bit of a chef that first night. With the market haul and some smoked mackerel from the village shop, I attempted a kedgeree. Stirring the rice while the others lounged in that welcoming sitting room, I thought, ‘This is it, proper holiday vibes.’ It wasn’t half bad, though I overdid the curry powder – a gentle reminder that I’m better at eating than cooking. We laughed it off over plates piled high, the wood floors glowing under the fairy lights.

Pub grub stole the show, mind. The Ship Inn down in Gatehouse is a gem – we wandered in one evening, all windswept from a gentle stroll along the Fleet Bay shore, and ordered platters of fresh seafood: plump prawns, mussels in creamy garlic sauce, and the crispiest fish and chips I’ve had in ages. Washed down with a pint of something local and hoppy, it was pure bliss. Another night, we hit the Golf Inn, just up the road, for hearty steak pies and sticky toffee pudding that had us scraping the bowls. The locals were dead friendly, sharing tips on the best cream teas at the Creetown café a couple of miles over – we tried it next day, and blimey, those scones with clotted cream and homemade jam were worth the detour.

One rainy afternoon, holed up with a failed attempt at Cullen skink (too much potato, not enough finesse), I had a proper moment of reflection. Sat there in the kitchen, steam from the pot fogging the window, watching the drizzle over the gardens, I realised this is what holidays are for – not perfection, but those shared meals, the daft cooking disasters, and the joy of simple, brilliant local nosh. We left with bellies full and memories stuffed fuller, already plotting a return for more of that Galloway goodness.