I’ll never forget the drive down to Pembrokeshire – sat nav insisted on a shortcut through some twisty lanes near Haverfordwest, and wouldn’t you know it, we ended up with a flat tyre on a hedge-lined backroad. Me, fiddling with the jack while the kids bickered in the back about who got the last Haribo. An hour later, sorted by a passing farmer with more tools than BandQ, and we were off again, hearts racing but buzzing with that holiday anticipation. Newgale was calling, and boy, did it deliver.

Pulling up to this stylish retreat in its remote spot on Newgale’s west coast was pure magic – first impressions? Wide sandy beach just a footpath away, Pembrokeshire Coast Path winking at us from the cliffs, and that fresh sea air hitting like a welcome hug. It sleeps six comfy, perfect for our family rabble, and felt like the ideal launchpad for mates or kin who love a nature fix without the crowds.

But let’s be honest, the real star was the food – or should I say, our glorious feast of feasts. First night, we cracked open the cool box and attempted a Welsh rarebit showdown in the kitchen. I charred mine to a crisp (note to self: grills aren’t microwaves), but the kids’ version with doorstep bread from the local Newgale shop was spot on, melty and moreish. Paired it with a bottle of local craft cider – cheers to rookie errors turning into triumphs.

Next morning, beach walk done, we hit the Dragon’s Head pub right on Newgale beach for brunch. Proper seaside grub: crab sandwiches piled high with fresh Pembrokeshire catch, chips fat and golden, and pots of cockles that tasted like the ocean in a bowl. I hoovered mine while gazing at surfers – heaven. The landlady recommended their faggots and peas special for later; we didn’t need telling twice. Funny how a pint of Brains there made me reflect on my city rush – why don’t I slow down like this more often? Simple joys, eh?

Midweek, we pottered to Solva’s harbour market, just a few miles up the coast – stalls groaning under artisan cheeses, smoked mackerel, and jars of seaweed chutney that I’m still dreaming about. Bargain-hunted for Pembrokeshire potatoes and new season leeks, then back to base for a bash at cawl. Mine was a watery disaster (too much stock panic), but sloshed with some creamy Caerphilly from the market, it passed muster. The kids even helped, giggling as we chopped, turning it into a family bonding session amid the steam.

Evenings? Pub crawls on foot – the Farmers Arms in Newgale for lamb roasts that fell off the bone, gravy like nectar, and sticky toffee pud that had us scraping bowls. One night, we lugged picnic bits to the beach at sunset: pasties from the village bakery, still warm, with flasks of tea. Wind-whipped but worth it, munching as seals bobbed offshore.

Self-reflection hit on the last breakfast – frying up market bacon and eggs on the hob, I realised this holiday wasn’t just about scoffing (though we did plenty), but those shared meals stitching us closer. Pembrokeshire’s west coast fed our souls as much as our stomachs. Can’t wait to go back – next time, I’m mastering that cawl.