I’ll never forget the drive down to Saundersfoot – we’d loaded up the car with enough snacks to feed a small army, but about halfway through Carmarthenshire, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us on a scenic detour through some narrow lanes that had me gripping the wheel like it was a lifeline. “Are we lost or just sightseeing?” my mate Dave quipped, as we inched past a flock of sheep that looked distinctly unimpressed. Still, by the time we crested the hill and caught our first glimpse of the bay sparkling under the sun, all was forgiven. Saundersfoot looked like a proper postcard seaside village, and pulling up to our detached holiday home right there overlooking the water had us buzzing with anticipation – beach walks and pub lunches awaited.

First impressions? Spot on. The place was cosy and welcoming, with everything we needed for a lazy week away, just a short stroll down to Glen beach and the harbour. We dumped the bags and headed straight out, stomachs rumbling after that faffed journey. Saundersfoot’s got this brilliant little hub of shops, pubs, and eateries, and we dove right in. Our first stop was the Captain’s Parade, a cracking pub right by the harbour with outdoor tables perfect for people-watching. I went for the fresh local crab salad – sweet, meaty chunks straight from the boats that bobbed nearby – washed down with a pint of Brains. Dave demolished a plate of moules frites, declaring it “better than anything in Cardiff.” We laughed about how we’d probably waddle back up the hill later.

Next morning, I fancied playing chef in the well-kitted kitchen. Popped down to the village market stalls – they’re on most days in summer, piled high with Pembrokeshire new potatoes, artisan cheeses from local farms, and the freshest mackerel you’ll see. Grabbed some smoked haddock, eggs, and a loaf of that dense Welsh soda bread. My attempt at kedgeree turned into a bit of a gloopy disaster – too much rice, not enough finesse – but with a splash of cream and a cheeky grating of parmesan from the fridge, it was edible enough. Dave took one look and said, “Mate, stick to takeaways next time.” Fair cop; I’m more of a taster than a master, and it made me reflect on how holidays like this remind you it’s the messing about in the kitchen that makes it fun, not perfection.

Evenings were for proper indulgence. The Galleon pub did a mean Sunday roast – tender Welsh lamb with all the trimmings, Yorkshire puds puffed up like clouds, and gravy that could make you weep. We followed it with a wander along the sandy stretch towards Wiseman’s Bridge, plotting our next feast. One night, we hit the Wooden Lodge for fish and chips wrapped in paper, eaten on the beach as the sun dipped – crispy batter, fluffy insides, and vinegar sharp enough to wake the dead. Another highlight was the Coach and Horses, where the seafood chowder was thick with prawns and smoked fish, paired with crusty rolls from the bakery opposite.

A quick drive to nearby Manorbier one afternoon led us to the Old Mill Tearoom for cream teas – scones still warm, clotted cream mountains, and strawberry jam that tasted like summer. Closer to home, the harbour chippy became our guilty pleasure, and I even managed a half-decent pasta primavera one night using veg from the farm shop. Food in Pembrokeshire isn’t just fuel; it’s the heartbeat of the place, tying you to the sea and the land. By week’s end, we’d eaten like kings, laughed off my culinary flops, and stumbled back to that bay-view home fatter and happier. Can’t wait to go back – next time, I’m booking cooking lessons first.