I’ll never forget the drive down to Tenby – we’d packed the car to bursting with cool bags of fresh veg from the garden and a bottle of prosecco for the road, but about halfway through Carmarthenshire, disaster struck. The heavens opened, turning the M4 into a proper aquaplaning nightmare, and we ended up pulling over at services for an hour, munching soggy sandwiches while the rain hammered the windscreen. Still, by the time we rolled into Pembrokeshire, the clouds were parting, and my heart was doing little flips at the thought of what lay ahead. A few wrong turns through Tenby’s winding streets (SatNav, why do you hate me?), and there we were, pulling up to this stunning apartment right in the heart of it all.

First impressions? Blimey, they hit like a wave. Floor-to-ceiling bay windows framing panoramic views over the sparkling harbour and that endless sweep of North Beach – I stood there in the bedroom, jaw on the floor, watching fishing boats bob about. It’s the kind of spot that makes you feel instantly on holiday, no faffing about.

We wasted no time diving into the food scene, which is Tenby’s real magic. First evening, we wandered five minutes down to the harbour and bagged a table at The Plantagenet House – one of those cosy Tudor pubs tucked away off the high street. I went for the local crab linguine, creamy and briny with chunks of Pembrokeshire crab that tasted straight from the sea, while my other half demolished a plate of seared scallops. Washed down with a pint of Swansea’s craft lager, it was pure bliss. We chatted with the barman about the day’s catch, and he tipped us off about the Friday market.

Next morning, that market was our first port of call – just a stroll away on the quay. Stalls groaning under Welsh cheeses, artisan breads, and the freshest seafood you’ll find this side of the Irish Sea. I snapped up cockles, samphire, and a slab of Tenby butcher’s rarebit-ready cheddar. Back at the apartment, with its smart little kitchen overlooking the beach, I fancied myself a proper chef. Attempt one: cockle chowder. It started well – onions sizzling, cream bubbling – but I overseasoned it with too much smoked paprika, turning the whole pot into a fiery mishmash. We laughed it off over mugs of tea, watching families build sandcastles below, and salvaged it with heaps of buttery bread from the market. Self-reflection moment: I’m no MasterChef, but there’s something dead satisfying about faffing in a holiday kitchen with views like that. Makes the disasters taste better, somehow.

Evenings blurred into pub crawls and feasts. The Hope and Anchor did us moules marinières one night – plump mussels in garlic and cider, with chips so crisp they crunched like autumn leaves. Another day, we hit The Tavern on the Strand for fish and chips straight off the boat, vinegar sharp and batter golden. I even managed a decent sea bass bake on night three, using market herbs and a splash of white wine, served on the balcony as the sun dipped over Caldey Island. Portions were generous, prices fair – proper value for money.

By the end of the week, I’d put on half a stone and zero regrets. Tenby’s foodie heart, paired with that apartment’s unbeatable perch, made it the perfect escape. If you’re after harbour views and plates piled high with local grub, get yourself there. You won’t want to leave.