I’ll never forget the drive down to St Davids – a proper white-knuckle affair after I took a wrong turn near Haverfordwest and ended up on those narrow lanes that twist like a drunkard’s stagger. The SatNav was having a right old paddy, chirping “recalculating” every five minutes, and I nearly ended up in a hedge. But as we crested the hill and spotted the cathedral’s spire peeking out, all that stress melted away. I was buzzing with anticipation – visions of fresh seafood and cosy pub suppers dancing in my head.

Pulling up to our charming stone cottage with its private hot tub, right on the edge of St Davids near the Pembrokeshire Coast Path, it was love at first sight. Compact and inviting, with that welcoming glow from the windows, it felt like the perfect bolthole for a foodie escape. We dumped the bags and headed straight out – no unpacking faff, just hunger leading the way.

First stop was the local farm shop just a short stroll away, where I stocked up on Pembrokeshire new potatoes, plump leeks, and the freshest mackerel you’ve ever seen. Back at the cottage, I fancied myself a proper chef, attempting a pan-fried mackerel with lemon and herbs. It started well – sizzling away nicely – but I got cocky with the seasoning and it came out a tad salty. Still, washed down with a crisp Welsh cider from the fridge, it hit the spot. We bubbled in the hot tub after, laughing about my culinary blunder, steam rising as the sun dipped low.

Next morning, we wandered into St Davids for the farmers’ market – what a gem. Stalls groaning under artisan cheeses, crab from nearby Solva, and sourdough loaves that smelled like heaven. I nabbed some smoked salmon and wild garlic pesto, then we hit The Farmers Arms for elevenses. Their ploughman’s was spot on: chunks of mature cheddar, pickled onions, and that bread still warm. Sat outside in the sun, pint of local ale in hand, I had one of those moments – you know, reflecting on how we rush about back home, missing these simple joys. Why don’t I do this more often?

Evenings were pub heaven. St Non’s Inn did a cracking fish pie, creamy and packed with haddock from St Brides Bay, paired with a cheeky glass of pinot grigio. We tried our hand at cooking again that night – cockles and bacon linguine, inspired by a market recipe. Mine turned into a bit of a mush (note to self: less stirring next time), but my other half nailed it, and we devoured it on the terrace, hot tub humming invitingly nearby.

Our last supper was at The Grove, where the lamb shank fell off the bone, slow-cooked with rosemary from local gardens. Stuffed and happy, we reflected on the week over hot tub GandTs. Turns out, the best holidays aren’t about grand plans – they’re about good grub, daft kitchen disasters, and lingering over plates with people you love. St Davids, you’ve ruined me for takeaways forever.