I finally made it to No.6 The Vista in Woolacombe after a bit of a faff on the drive down from Bristol. Picture this: I'd packed a cool bag with cheeses and a bottle of scrumpy from a farm shop en route, dreaming of lazy Devon suppers, when—bam—my satnav decided to play silly buggers and routed me through some narrow lanes that felt like they were auditioning for a horror film. A rogue branch scraped the side of the car, leaving a tiny scratch that's probably karma for once getting lost in Taunton. Still, as I pulled up to this chic little semi-detached cottage tucked into Willingcott Valley, just a hop from Woolacombe's golden sands, all was forgiven. The sea views from the terrace hit me like a proper North Devon welcome—endless blue stretching out, with the faint crash of waves on Morte Point.

First impressions? Blimey, this place is a foodie's dream hideaway. The owners had stocked the basics—fresh milk, bread, and a welcoming note suggesting the local farm shop for supplies. I dumped my bags and legged it straight to the Willingcott Valley Farm Shop, not five minutes away by foot. It's one of those proper Devon gems: wonky shelves groaning under jars of clotted cream, pasties the size of my forearm, and racks of just-picked veg that smelled like they'd been yanked from the soil that morning. I grabbed a haul—smoked mackerel from the bay, new potatoes, and a slab of West Country cheddar so sharp it could cut glass. Back at the cottage, the kitchen's a belter: all sleek granite worktops and a hob that fired up instantly. My grand plan? Pan-fry the mackerel with those spuds, a knob of butter, and some parsley I'd snipped from the window box. It wasn't MasterChef—slightly overdone on one side, thanks to me getting distracted by the view—but slathered in cream and paired with a cold Exmoor Ale from the fridge, it tasted like holiday heaven. Sat on that terrace as the sun dipped, I had a proper moment of reflection: when was the last time I cooked without rushing, just savouring the simplicity? In London, meals are microwave fodder; here, it's therapy with a fork.

Evening called for a pub crawl—well, more of a gentle amble, given everything's so close. First stop: The Woolacombe Bay Inn, a classic right on the seafront. I plonked down with a pint of Otter Bitter and the fish and chips—cod so flaky it dissolved, chips thick-cut and vinegar-drenched, mushy peas on the side because, Devon. The locals were chatting about surf conditions at Putsborough, and I couldn't help eavesdropping, pint in hand. Back at No.6 later, I rustled up brekkie the next morning from market finds: bacon from the farm shop's butcher counter (thick rashers, proper smoky), fried with eggs from their happy hens. Attempted avocado toast too, but smashing the avo turned into a comedy slip—green mush everywhere. Laughed it off with a cuppa overlooking the bay, feeling ridiculously content.

Day two's lunch was a picnic cobbled from the cottage's bounty. I'd nipped to Woolacombe's village market—tiny but brilliant, with stalls hawking Devon sausages, fudge, and scones still warm from the oven. Loaded up on cream teas (jam first, obviously) and a pork pie that was pure filth in the best way. Ate it on the terrace, crumbs flying in the breeze, watching families beachcomb at Barricane Beach below. Dinner? A heroic stab at a full Devon fry-up in the kitchen: black pudding from the farm shop, grilled tomatoes bursting with juice, and baked beans because balance. Singed the toast slightly, but washed down with local cider, it was spot-on. Pub encore at The London Inn up the road—lamb shank that fell off the bone, washed back with a cheeky Malbec. The barman recommended the Willingcott shop's specials for tomorrow; turns out it's the hub for all things edible around here.

By the end of those first days, No.6 The Vista had me hooked—not just the jaw-dropping vistas, but how it turned every meal into an event. From botched mackerel to pub perfection, it's the kind of spot that reminds you food's the real heart of a Devon getaway. Can't wait to return for more.