I’ll never forget the drive down to Gitcombe Retreat near Dartmouth – a proper Devon jaunt that started with me spilling half a thermos of tea all over the passenger seat just past Exeter. Sod’s Law, innit? There I was, mopping up with service station napkins, swearing under my breath while the SatNav cheerily announced another 45 minutes of twisty lanes. But as we wound through the South Hams, past those lush hedgerows and glimpses of the Dart Estuary sparkling like a pint of Proper Job in the sun, all was forgiven. By the time we pulled up to Gitcombe, a cosy stone cottage tucked into the hillside with sea views that could make a Tory hug a tree, I was starving and ready for the proper holiday bit: the food.

First impressions? Blimey, it was love at first sight – and first sniff. The retreat’s got this welcoming porch piled with logs (mental note: we’ll roast stuff later), and inside, the kitchen screamed “get cooking, you lazy sod.” Flagstone floors, a Rayburn that looked like it could feed a rugby team, and a larder stocked with local basics: Devon cider, clotted cream, and a loaf of bread from the nearby farm shop that was still warm. We’d stopped at the Dartmouth market on the way – a five-minute hop – and loaded up on fresh mackerel from the boats, plump tomatoes that tasted like summer, and a slab of fudge that nearly didn’t make it home. That insignificant tea spill felt like a distant memory as we unpacked.

Unzipping the cool bag, we cracked on with lunch straight away. I fancied myself a MasterChef, filleting the mackerel with a blunt knife from the drawer – ended up with something resembling fishy confetti, but fried in butter with a squeeze of lemon from the garden patch outside, it was divine. Paired with that crusty bread slathered in clotted cream and a dollop of strawberry jam from the market, it was pure Devon nosh. We ate on the terrace, feet up on the old wooden bench, watching gulls wheel over the estuary. The air smelled of salt and honeysuckle, and for a moment, I reflected on how daft it is rushing through life back home, scoffing microwave meals. Here, food slows everything down – makes you savour it, properly.

Afternoon tea turned into a pub crawl of one: the George Inn, a stagger down the hill in Dartmouth. Proper old boozer with beams you could bash your head on if you’re not careful (I speak from experience). We went for the ploughman’s – mature cheddar crumblier than my nan’s biscuits, pickled onions that zinged, and a pint of Dartmoor Jail Ale that slipped down a treat. The barman reckoned the cheese was from a farm just up the road; everything’s hyper-local here, which makes you feel like you’re in on a secret. Back at Gitcombe by dusk, bellies full, we attempted supper: a slapdash pasty from the market, reheated on the Rayburn with some wilted greens I foraged from the veg patch (well, pinched, but who’s counting?). It wasn’t Gordon Ramsay, but with a bottle of Cornish white from the offie, it hit the spot. Laughing at my carving skills – more Jackson Pollock than chef – we toasted to mishaps and mackerel.

Evening brought the real joy: fire lit in the inglenook, toasting crumpets with more of that clotted cream till they oozed gold. The cottage’s Aga hummed away, promising cream teas galore tomorrow, and outside, the lights of Dartmouth twinkled like fairy cakes. Gitcombe Retreat isn’t just a stay; it’s a three-day love letter to Devon’s grub – markets bursting with the sea’s bounty, pubs doling out history by the pint, and a kitchen begging for your daftest culinary experiments. If you’re after first impressions that stick like fudge to your teeth, this is it. Can’t wait to go back – tea stains be damned.