I’ll never forget the drive down to Pembrokeshire – sat nav insisting we take some winding back lane near Milford Haven, only for us to end up behind a tractor doing about 10 miles an hour. Proper comedy gold, me tapping the wheel while the kids in the back moaned about snacks. But as we finally rolled into Herbrandston, that anticipation kicked in hard. The village felt like a proper hidden gem, all tucked away in the Pembrokeshire Coast National Park, and there it was: this cracking single-storey cottage, spotless and cosy, with everything laid out just right. First impressions? Bang on. We dumped the bags and cracked open a bottle of local cider to celebrate.

Right, the food – that’s where this holiday properly shone. We’d stocked up en route at a little market stall near Haverfordwest, grabbing fresh crab claws and plump tomatoes that still had that farm-dirt smell. First night, I fancied myself as a chef, attempting a crab linguine in the cottage’s neat kitchen. Disaster? Nearly. Forgot to crack the claws properly, ended up with bits of shell in my teeth and the other half laughing at my amateur wrestling match. Tasted alright in the end, though, washed down with a cheeky glass of white from the offy down the road.

Next morning, we wandered over to Sandy Haven beach – it’s just a short stroll from the cottage, along the coastal path. Tidal estuary, rock pools teeming with life, and that stepping stone bridge begging for a go at crabbing. We didn’t catch much (blame my rubbish string-tying skills), but the picnic we’d packed hit the spot: cheese sarnies from local dairy, still warm from the sun, and apples so crisp they snapped like they were fresh-picked. Sat there watching the waves, feeling a bit reflective – you know, one of those moments where you realise how daft it is rushing about back home when this is what life’s about.

Evenings were pub central. The Swan in Herbrandston is a belter, just a hop away – proper village local with beams you have to duck (well, if you’re me) and the friendliest bar staff. We demolished plates of fish and chips, the batter so light and the haddock melting in your mouth, sourced from boats not five miles off Dale. Puddings? Sticky toffee that had us scraping the bowl. Another night, we tried the tiny spot in Dale village – mussels in garlic cream, harvested right from the bay, and a pint of Brains that went down far too easily. Managed a half-decent steak pie attempt back at the cottage too, using mince from the Milford Haven butcher’s – soggy pastry, mind, but hearty.

One highlight was the farmers’ market in Haverfordwest, close enough for a quick scoot. Welsh cakes still warm from the griddle, handmade sausages that we grilled up for brekkie, and cheeses that could make a grown man weep. I even tried baking soda bread following a scribbled recipe from the cottage drawer – flatter than a pancake, but slathered in local butter, it was perfection.

Honestly, it was the kind of holiday where the eating steered everything. Left us stuffed, happy, and plotting a return. Pembrokeshire knows how to do it right.