I finally made it to Copper Lodge near Chulmleigh after a bit of a faff on the drive down from the Midlands. Picture this: I'm belting along the A377, cream tea dreams bubbling in my head, when I realise I've left my posh olive oil back home. Proper rookie error—pulled over at a layby, cursing under my breath, and ended up grabbing a dodgy bottle from a petrol station in Tiverton. Still, nothing was going to spoil my three-day Devon escape in this cosy little lodge.

Pulling up to Copper Lodge just before teatime on that first Friday, I was gobsmacked. Tucked away in a quiet spot off the beaten track, it's the sort of place that screams "proper Devon hideaway"—a snug stone-built cottage with a thatched roof vibe, surrounded by rolling fields and not a neighbour in sight. The sun was dipping low, casting that golden glow over the garden, and I could already smell the sea air mingling with something earthy and inviting. First impressions? Bliss. I dumped my bags, cracked open a window, and surveyed my kingdom: a compact kitchen that looked like it meant business, with a Rayburn cooker begging to be fired up, and a lounge that promised lazy evenings with a pint.

Right, priorities—food. I'd stocked the boot with bits from a quick stop at Crediton market en route: fresh pasties from the bakery stall, a wedge of crumbly Devon Blue cheese, and some knobbly veg that looked like they'd been yanked straight from a local allotment. No faffing about with fancy recipes; I rummaged for that petrol station oil and set to work on a simple supper. Sautéed some Chulmleigh carrots and onions (picked up from a farm honesty box five minutes down the lane), chucked in a couple of plump mackerel fillets I'd nabbed from the fishmonger there—proper fresh, straight off the boats via the morning's delivery. The lodge's kitchen was a dream for this: well-stocked with pots that heated up like nobody's business. A splash of cider from a local bottle (thank you, aforementioned market), a bit of salt, and 20 minutes later, I had a plate of pan-fried mackerel with veg that tasted like summer on a fork. Washed it down with a cold Exmoor Ale from the fridge—pure heaven. Sat at the wooden table by the window, watching the light fade, and thought, "This is why we do these trips."

Saturday morning kicked off with a greasy spoon brekkie attempt. I'd spotted the Murchington Farm Shop just a mile away the night before—couldn't resist a dawn raid for their bacon and eggs. Rashers from rare-breed pigs, free-range eggs still warm, and a loaf of sourdough that could double as a doorstop. Back at the lodge, I fried it all up on the Rayburn, adding a knob of butter and some of that Devon Blue melted on top. Nearly set off the smoke alarm when I got distracted by the view—clumsy sod that I am—but it emerged gloriously crisp. Fuelled up, I wandered to the nearby Eggesford pub for elevenses: a pint of Otter Bitter and a slice of their homemade apple cake. The barman, a cheery local with stories about the Exmoor hunts, reckoned it was made with apples from the orchard round the back. Spot on—tart, spicy, and just the ticket.

Lunch was a comedy of errors. Armed with provisions from the farm shop (smoked trout pâté and crusty rolls), I tried my hand at a picnic in the lodge garden. But the wind whipped up, sending my napkin flying into the hedge—chased it down laughing like an idiot. Still, scoffing that pâté with a view of the Devon hills? Magic. Evening brought the pub crawl proper: a stagger to the Red Lion in Chulmleigh, under a mile away. Proper old-school boozer—beams, roaring fire, and a menu of steak and ale pie that arrived bubbling under golden pastry. I demolished it with chips and mushy peas, followed by a sticky toffee pudding so rich it glued my fork to the plate. Chatted with locals about the best pasty spots; turns out the market ones I'd grabbed were bang on.

By Sunday morning, nursing a slight hangover over lodge-made kedgeree (smoked haddock from the farm shop, rice bunged in the oven), I had a quiet moment of reflection. Staring out at the misty fields, cuppa in hand, I realised these simple meals—fumbled together or pub-perfected—were the real heart of it. No Instagram perfection, just good grub, good company (even if it was solo), and that satisfying fullness from Devon's finest. Copper Lodge didn't just provide the roof; it handed me the joy of faffing about in the kitchen, discovering local haunts within spitting distance. First impressions sealed it: I'd be back for more.