I finally made it to Cairnwood Premier in Ilfracombe after a bit of a faff on the drive down from the Midlands. Picture this: I'm humming along the A361, windows down, dreaming of pasties and pints, when I realise I've left my phone charger at a service station petrol stop. Proper numpty moment—rummaging through the glovebox like a madman while lorries thunder past. No bother, though; it meant I arrived phone-free and fully present, which turned out to be a blessing for soaking in those first impressions.

Pulling up to Cairnwood just as the sun dipped low over the Devon cliffs, I was gobsmacked. This isn't some bog-standard holiday let—it's a proper premier cottage, all cosy stone exterior with a private hot tub bubbling away like it was waiting just for me. Inside, the kitchen screamed "get cooking," with its gleaming Aga-style cooker, stocked herb pots on the windowsill, and a massive farmhouse table begging for feasts. First impressions? Heaven for a foodie like me. The place is in a quiet spot on the edge of Ilfracombe, maybe a ten-minute stroll to the high street, close enough to pop out for supplies without the faff of parking wars.

Day one kicked off with the essentials: a raid on the local market down by the harbour. Ilfracombe's got that proper seaside vibe—stalls heaving with fresh Devon crab, plump strawberries from nearby farms, and wheels of crumbly Cheddar that could make you weep. I grabbed a punnet of those berries, some smoked mackerel, and a loaf of sourdough still warm from the bakery tent. Back at Cairnwood, my grand cooking attempt began. I'd fancied myself a chef, slapping together a mackerel pâté with lemon zest and serving it on thick slices of bread, washed down with a cheeky local cider from the offy. It was messy—half the pâté ended up on my shirt, and the hot tub got an accidental fishy splash—but blimey, it tasted of the sea. Sat there on the patio as dusk fell, scoffing it all, I had one of those gentle moments of reflection: when did I last eat something so fresh without scrolling Instagram? Proper grounding, that.

Evening called for the pub crawl—well, more of a gentle waddle to The George and Dragon, a five-minute bimble away. It's the sort of old-school boozer with beams low enough to brain the unwary and a landlady who calls you "love" from the off. I went for the Devonshire cream tea twist: scones slathered in clotted cream and jam, followed by a pint of Otter Bitter that slid down like liquid gold. Chatted with locals about the best crab pots—turns out the harbour lads swear by the ones from the stall I'd hit earlier. Light-hearted banter flowed, with one chap ribbing me about my "posh" cottage (cheeky sod), but it felt like coming home.

Next morning, breakfast was my big swing: Cairnwood's kitchen delivered again. I'd nipped to the Co-op for bacon from Exmoor pigs, free-range eggs, and sausages that promised "proper Devon flavour." Fried it all up on the hob, black pudding on the side, with those leftover strawberries for a sweet hit. Ate overlooking the garden, steam rising from my mug of builder's tea, thinking how this three-day jaunt was already recharging my soul through sheer grub. Lunch? A picnic of market-bought pasties—steak and stilton, naturally—eaten by the hot tub, crumbs everywhere.

By day two's end, after a failed attempt at clotted cream rice pudding (too lumpy, but edible with extra cider), I'd fallen for Cairnwood's magic. It's not just the swish setup; it's how it turns you into a temporary Devon food explorer, one messy meal at a time. First impressions don't get much tastier.