I finally made it to Seascape Retreat in Ilfracombe after a bit of a faff on the drive down from the Midlands. Picture this: I'm bombing along the A361, past those rolling Devon hills dotted with sheep, when I realise I've left my phone charger at home. Proper numpty move, innit? No biggie, though – I figured I'd pick one up in town later. The satnav led me straight to this cracking little coastal cottage, tucked away in a quiet spot overlooking the Bristol Channel. As I pulled up, the sea air hit me like a tonic, all salty and invigorating, with waves crashing below. First impressions? Bliss. The place looked like a proper seaside bolthole – whitewashed walls, a wee garden with herbs fluttering in the breeze, and those big windows promising non-stop ocean views.

I dumped my bags and headed straight for the kitchen, starving after the drive. Seascape's got this cosy setup with all the mod cons, including a cracking oven and a fridge begging to be stocked. No time to waste – I legged it to the local market just a short stroll away in Ilfracombe's high street. Blimey, what a gem. Stalls heaving with fresh Devon produce: plump tomatoes from nearby polytunnels, wheels of crumbly Cheddar from Exmoor farms, and the freshest mackerel you've ever seen, straight off the boats in the harbour. I loaded up on pasties from a vendor who'd clearly been at it for donkey's years – proper Cornish jobbies, but with that Devonian twist of local beef and spuds. £3 each, steaming hot, and I scoffed one on the way back, flaky pastry flaking everywhere. Messy but marvellous.

Back at the retreat, I fancied a bash at cooking. First meal sorted: a simple fish supper. Gutted a couple of those mackerel (messily, I might add – scales everywhere, looked like a crime scene), grilled 'em with some lemon from the garden and new potatoes boiled till fluffy. Paired it with a cheeky bottle of white from the offy down the road. Sat out on the terrace as the sun dipped, waves lapping, and proper reflected on how I never make time for this at home. Work's always nattering on about deadlines, but here? Just me, the sea, and a plate of perfection. Gentle nudge to self: do this more often, you daft sod.

Evening called for a pub crawl – well, more of a gentle amble to the nearest locals. First stop, The Carlton, not five minutes away, a proper Ilfracombe boozer with beams, real ales on tap, and punters who greet you like an old mate. I went for the ploughman's: hunks of local cheese, pickled onions sharp as a tack, and crusty bread that could double as a doorstop. Washed down with a pint of Otter Bitter – smooth, malty, and just the ticket. Chatted with the barman about the best spots for crab; turns out the harbour lads do cracking seafood platters. Felt like I'd slotted right in.

Day two kicked off with brekkie experiments. Nipped to the market again for eggs from free-range hens down the lane, smoked bacon from a butcher stall, and sconces – sorry, scones – still warm from the oven. Tried my hand at a full Devon fry-up in Seascape's kitchen: bacon sizzling, eggs poached wonky but edible, mushrooms foraged in spirit from the garden (well, shop-bought, but close enough). Laughed at myself burning the toast – black as my soul after one too many late nights. Ate it on the patio, watching fishing boats bob, feeling smug about the self-sufficiency.

Lunch was a picnic of market finds: crab claws from the harbour (fresh as can be, £5 for a pot), crusty rolls, and a flask of tea. Supped it by the sea wall, close enough to feel the spray. Dinner? Pub again – The George this time, famed for its pies. Mine was steak and ale, pastry like a hug, gravy rich with local beef. Followed by sticky toffee pud that had me moaning in delight. Back at the retreat, I cracked open more cheese and biscuits, pondering how food here's not just fuel – it's the whole story. Those three days flew, all wrapped in meals that tasted of Devon itself. If you're after a proper feed with your sea views, Seascape's your spot. I'm already plotting the next trip.