I’ll never forget the drive down to Cardiff – we’d packed the car with enough snacks to last a siege, but halfway there, just past the Severn Bridge, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us on a scenic detour through some sleepy villages. By the time we rolled up to our family apartment opposite the Principality Stadium, we were starving and a bit frazzled, but honestly, that first glimpse made it all worthwhile. There it was, this cosy spot in a private residential block, right next to the buzz of the city centre with its restaurants and bars spilling out onto the streets. The anticipation had been building all week – visions of lazy mornings with fresh Welsh treats – and it didn’t disappoint.

We dumped the bags and headed straight out for a nose around. First stop: a cheeky pub lunch at the City Arms, just a stone’s throw away. Proper pie and mash, with a pint of Brains SA that hit the spot after our navigational drama. The place was packed with locals chatting about the rugby, and I couldn’t help grinning – this was Cardiff proper. Back at the flat that evening, we fancied playing house. The kitchen was brilliantly kitted out, so I attempted a Welsh rarebit with some mature cheddar we’d nabbed from a nearby deli. It started off grand, all bubbly and golden, but I got carried away with the mustard and it turned into a spicy beast. We laughed it off with a bottle of local cider, scraping it onto toast while overlooking the stadium lights twinkling like they were up for a party.

Sunday morning was the highlight – Cardiff’s original farmers’ market right on the street in front of the apartment. Blimey, what a feast for the senses! Stalls groaning under artisan breads, cheeses from Pembrokeshire, and the most incredible bara brith I’ve ever tasted. We loaded up on smoked salmon, fresh scones, and jars of Welsh honey, then wandered back to devour it all on the balcony. Later, we ambled to Bute Park for a picnic – just 0.6 miles away – munching on pork pies and strawberry jam while watching joggers and dog-walkers. It felt dead authentic, you know?

Evenings were for the city centre’s gems. One night, we hit the Planter’s House for elevated pub grub: slow-cooked lamb shank that fell off the bone, paired with craft ales from Tiny Rebel. Another was fish and chips at a spot near the castle (a quick 0.6-mile stroll), wrapped in paper and eaten on a bench like proper tourists. I did have a moment of self-reflection over my cooking flop – maybe I’m better at eating than chef-ing, but there’s something satisfying about pottering in a holiday kitchen with mates, isn’t there? No pretensions, just good food and better company.

We wrapped up with a Sunday roast at a cosy bistro, stuffing ourselves on roasties and gravy before waddling back. Staying here turned our trip into a proper food odyssey – markets, pubs, and half-arsed kitchen experiments. If you’re after a base for Cardiff’s eating scene, this is it. Can’t wait to go back.