I’ll never forget the drive down to Dumfries and Galloway – a proper faff from the start. I’d packed the car with enough tinned soups and teabags to last a siege, only to realise halfway through that I’d left the satnav at home. Cue an hour of squinting at Google Maps on my phone while the rain lashed the windscreen like it had a personal grudge. But as we wound past Gatehouse of Fleet, the clouds parted just enough to reveal those rolling hills and glimpses of Wigtown Bay, and suddenly I was buzzing with anticipation. What a spot for a proper holiday feed-up.

Pulling up to the single storey cottage in the heart of Galloway, just a stone’s throw from the bay, my first impressions were spot on. It’s one of those beautifully renovated farm steading places – cosy, welcoming, with everything you need to rustle up a feast without faffing about. We dumped the bags and headed straight for the kitchen, which felt like the heart of the operation. First mission: dinner. I’d spotted a farm shop en route selling local treats, so we stocked up on smoked mackerel from the bay, fresh tatties, and a wedge of creamy Galloway cheese that could make you weep.

That first evening, I attempted a heroic fish pie – my mum’s recipe, or so I thought. Mashed the spuds a bit lumpy, overdid the pepper, and the whole thing nearly set off the smoke alarm. We laughed it off with a bottle of red from the offie in Gatehouse, scraping it onto plates anyway. Surprisingly decent, if a tad volcanic. Next morning, breakfast was redemption: plump sausages from the butcher’s in town, fried up with eggs from the cottage’s welcome pack. Sat by the window overlooking the courtyard, it felt like the perfect start – no rush, just good scran and birdsong.

We couldn’t resist the local pubs after that. The Ship Inn down by the water does a cracking pint and their haddock and chips are legendary – golden batter, peas mushy just right, and not a soggy chip in sight. We holed up there one drizzly afternoon, working our way through baskets of scampi and a shared sticky toffee pudding that was pure comfort. Back at the cottage, I got ambitious with a Galloway beef stew, slow-cooked with veg from the weekly market in Gatehouse. Those markets are gold dust – stalls heaving with artisan bread, jars of chutney, and the freshest kippers you’ll find. I even nabbed some homemade oatcakes for elevenses.

One night, we wandered to the Thistle Inn for their renowned venison pie, washed down with a wee dram. Proper heart-warming stuff, though I did have a moment of gentle self-reflection mid-bite: here I am, mid-forties, still getting excited over a good pie like a kid at Christmas. It’s the simple things, isn’t it? No fancy restaurants, just honest, hearty food that tastes of the land. My cooking attempts improved too – by day three, a decent Cullen skink had us grinning like idiots.

We wrapped up with a final market haul: black pudding, shortbread, and more cheese than sensible. Feasting like kings in that cosy kitchen, with the bay shimmering outside, it was the kind of holiday that sticks to your ribs. If you’re after a break where the eating’s as good as the scenery, this corner of Galloway’s your spot. I’m already plotting the next trip – and this time, I’m packing the satnav.