I’ll never forget the drive down to Pembrokeshire – sat nav insisting we take some winding back lane near Narberth, only for us to end up behind a flock of sheep that decided to stage a full-on protest. Twenty minutes of gentle honking later, we finally rolled into Haverfordwest, hearts racing a bit but buzzing with that proper holiday anticipation. What a first glimpse, though – the town’s got this cosy, lived-in charm, riverside views peeking through the trees, and our little hideaway just waiting to welcome us.

It’s a cracking single-storey cottage, dead handy for us two, with off-road parking that saved my parking karma and a hot tub out back that screamed ‘relaxation station’ from the off. Stepped inside to this open-plan haven: plush double bedroom for collapsing into, a swish bathroom with all the trimmings – bath, shower, heated towel rail, the lot – and that living space that just flows. Stylish kitchen begging for some culinary experiments, dining spot for two, and a comfy sitting area perfect for evenings in.

Right, the real star? The food scene. We hit the ground running with a mooch to the local market in town – Haverfordwest’s got one of those proper Friday affairs, stalls groaning under fresh Pembrokeshire spuds, Welsh cheeses that could make you weep, and the fattest, juiciest strawberries you’ve ever seen. Snagged some bara brith and a wedge of caerphilly, plus cockles straight from the estuary that tasted like the sea itself. Back at the cottage, I fancied myself a chef – attempted a Welsh rarebit with local cheddar melted into sourdough from the bakery down the road. Turned out half-decent, if I say so myself, though the toast went a tad nuclear under the grill. Laughed it off with a pint of Brains from the fridge (stocked up from the offie nearby).

Evenings were pub heaven. Strolled to The Swan just a hop away – proper local boozer with beams (well, you know the vibe) and the best fish and chips this side of the county. Crispy batter, proper mushy peas, and a cheeky side of laverbread that had us both grinning like idiots. Next night, The Three Crowns for a lamb shank that fell off the bone, washed down with a local craft ale from Conway Brewery. Food coma central, then back for a soak in the hot tub, steaming away the indulgence.

Tried my hand at a full-on supper one go: seared mackerel from the market fishmonger, new pots, and samphire foraged in spirit (okay, bought). Overdid the garlic, mind – eyes watering by plate two. But sitting there at the little dining table, candlelight flickering, it hit me: these daft kitchen disasters and pub crawls are what make a holiday stick. No five-star fuss, just us, cracking grub, and that warm Pembrokeshire glow. Couldn’t have asked for better.