I’ll never forget the drive down to Porthcawl – rain lashing the windscreen like it had a personal grudge, and then, just past Cardiff, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us on a merry dance through some back lanes that looked more like farm tracks. We were crammed in the car with the kids bickering over crisps, me white-knuckling the wheel, and my other half promising it’d all be worth it for some proper seaside downtime. By the time we rolled up, I was half-soaked from a dash to the boot for umbrellas, but oh, the anticipation was buzzing – visions of fish suppers and beach walks dancing in my head.

Pulling up to this ground-floor apartment, tucked away yet just a stroll from Porthcawl’s lively town centre, we were instantly smitten. Prominent spot with sea views from the front courtyard – perfect for a family like ours. Stepping inside, we ditched our soggy coats and shoes in the hallway and wandered into the open-plan living space. Local artwork everywhere added that proper seaside vibe, and we flopped straight onto the plush corner sofa, firing up the Smart TV to decompress with a cuppa.

Food was the star of our stay, no doubt. First evening, we were starving, so I had a bash at cooking – raided the well-stocked kitchen for some local sausages from the butcher we’d spotted en route (don’t ask about the navigation fiasco). Pan-fried them with spuds and a splash of cider vinegar I found in the cupboard, served up with crusty bread. It wasn’t MasterChef, but the kids wolfed it down, and we laughed about my wonky chopping skills while gazing out at the waves. Mind you, that was just the warm-up.

Next morning, we hit the town centre market – what a gem. Stalls groaning under fresh crab from the harbour, plump strawberries from nearby farms, and those massive pasties that smell like heaven. Grabbed some cockles and laverbread for authenticity (I’m Welsh enough to know you don’t mess with that combo), plus cheese that could make you weep. Back at the flat, lunch was a messy DIY affair: cockles on toast with butter and pepper, the kids giggling as we pretended it was posh tapas. My attempt at Welsh rarebit went slightly rubbery – too much cheese, too little patience – but it sparked a proper family chinwag about holidays past, me admitting I’m better at eating than cooking these days.

Evenings were pub heaven. Wandered down to the Royal Cambrian right by the seafront, barely five minutes away, for pints and platters of battered cod that flaked just right, with chips so chunky you could use ’em as hockey sticks. Another night, The Angel in town did the best lamb shank I’ve had in ages, slow-cooked till it fell off the bone, washed down with a cheeky local ale. We even squeezed in a fish and chip supper from a takeaway on the front – newspaper-wrapped, vinegar-drenched perfection eaten in the courtyard as the sun dipped.

One rainy afternoon, reflecting over a pot of tea and leftover market brownies, I realised this trip wasn’t just about scoffing (though we did plenty). It was those simple meals, the laughter in the kitchen fails, that made it magic. Porthcawl’s food scene had us hooked – unpretentious, hearty, and all within easy reach. Can’t wait to go back for more.