I’ll never forget the drive down to Pembrokeshire – sat nav on, windows down, and me belting out some terrible karaoke to keep the kids entertained. We’d left Cardiff early, buzzing with that holiday anticipation, dreaming of salty sea air and proper downtime. But about an hour in, disaster struck: a rogue seagull decided our windscreen was its personal canvas. Splattered and swearing under my breath (well, mildly tutting), we pulled over for a quick clean-up at a services, laughing it off as our official welcome to Wales. By the time we trundled into Moylgrove, that little Cardigan gem, the sun was peeking out, and my heart lifted.

Pulling up to the stylish cottage, I was chuffed to bits. Tucked close to the village, it had that cosy, welcoming vibe – perfect for our family crew, with space to sprawl and a kitchen that screamed “cook up a storm”. First impressions? Spot on. Ceibwr Beach just down the road promised crystal waters for later, but honestly, after that drive, all I could think about was food. We dumped the bags and raided the local shop for essentials: fresh bread, Welsh cheddar that could make you weep, and a slab of bara brith for elevenses.

That first evening, we pottered in the kitchen, attempting a Welsh rarebit with what we’d nabbed. I say “attempting” because I charred the toast – classic me, over-ambitious with the grill. The kids giggled as we salvaged it with extra cheese, and paired it with local cider from the fridge. It wasn’t gourmet, but sat round the table, windows open to the countryside breeze, it felt like heaven. Next morning, we hit the road (briefly) to Poppit Sands, a 10-minute drive for sandy toes, but the real pull was the beachside café. Crispy fish and chips, wrapped in paper, eaten on the pebbles – the batter so light, the haddock flaking perfectly. We washed it down with mugs of tea strong enough to stand a spoon in.

Pub grub became our religion. Moylgrove’s own spot, just a stroll away, served up the best lamb cawl I’ve ever had – hearty, herby stew that warmed us after a coastal path amble starting a mile off. Another night, we ventured to Newport Sands (not far at all) for picnics, but detoured to the local there for faggots and mushy peas. Blimey, those faggots were melt-in-the-mouth, wrapped in crispy bacon, with gravy that deserved its own fan club. Back at the cottage, my cooking redemption came with a seafood chowder, using crab from a nearby market stall – lumpy, homemade, but packed with flavour from Pembrokeshire’s catch.

We even squeezed in a farmers’ market in Cardigan, stocking up on cockles, laverbread (weird but wonderful on toast), and Welsh cakes still warm from the griddle. One rainy afternoon, reflecting on it all while nursing a cuppa, I realised this holiday wasn’t about epic hikes or Instagram beaches – it was these simple, belly-filling moments that stuck. Dodgy drives and singed toast aside, that cottage fed our souls as much as our stomachs. If you’re after coast and countryside with a side of seriously good nosh, this is your spot. Can’t wait to go back.