I’ll never forget the drive down to Newport last month – we’d loaded up the car with enough snacks to feed a small army, only for the sat-nav to chuck us into some cheeky roadworks just past the Severn Bridge. Half an hour of queuing behind a lorry belching fumes, and I was fantasising about ditching it all for a pasty from the services. But as we finally rolled into town, the sun breaking through the clouds, my heart lifted. Newport’s got this unpretentious buzz, and spotting our stylish modern cottage right by leafy Belle Vue Park felt like striking gold. Three bedrooms, sleeping six, it was the perfect bolt-hole, all clean lines and cosy vibes, just a cheeky 0.5 miles from the city centre.

First impressions? Spot on. We tumbled in, bags everywhere, and straight away I was rifling through the well-stocked kitchen, dreaming up feasts. No faffing about – we cracked open some local cider from the fridge (cheers to the hosts for that touch) and planned our attack on Casnewydd’s grub scene. That first evening, we wandered down to the covered market, a proper gem with its 60-odd stalls heaving with fresh produce, artisan cheeses, and baps stuffed with Welsh rarebit that could make you weak at the knees. I haggled for a wedge of caerphilly – sharp and crumbly – and some plump tomatoes that screamed summer, even if it was lashing down outside.

Next morning, fuelled by a fry-up I attempted in the cottage (bacon a tad cremated, but who’s judging?), we hit the vibrant heart of the city. Pubs everywhere, you know? The Olde Worlde vibe of the Golden Cross pulled us in for lunch – pint of Brains SA, naturally, and a ploughman’s that was more generous than my waistband can handle. Laughing about my cooking disasters over those pickled onions, I had one of those moments: holidays like this remind me to slow down, savour the simple stuff instead of always rushing. No Instagram perfection needed; just good mates, cracking banter, and plates piled high.

Afternoons were for Belle Vue Park strolls to walk off the damage, then back for more market hauls – cockles from the stall that’s been there donkey’s years, glistening and briny. Dinner that night? My heroic stab at cawl in the cottage kitchen, using veg from the market and lamb from the butcher’s counter. It wasn’t mum’s, but with hunks of soda bread dunked in, it hit the spot. We washed it down in a nearby pub, The Engine Room, where the fish and chips were golden-crusted perfection, and the locals swapped tales of Newport’s foodie underbelly.

Evenings blurred into pub crawls – trying craft ales at The Lamb, devouring loaded nachos at a tapas spot tucked away off High Street. One night, I overdid the puddings (sticky toffee that still haunts my dreams), waddling back to the cottage giggling like idiots. It was all about that food focus: markets for breakfast ingredients, pubs for hearties, and my increasingly bold (if wonky) home cooks. Newport’s eats aren’t flashy, but they’re honest, hearty, and hit you right in the soul. If you’re after a base to gorge and graze, this corner of Wales delivers. Can’t wait to go back – next time, I’m mastering that cawl.