I’d just about had it with the M5 traffic when the heavens opened, turning my drive from Bristol into a proper Devon downpour. Sat nav screaming about delays, I pulled over near Braunton for a cheeky pasty from a roadside van – flaky, steaming, stuffed with beef and spud – which I devoured in the car while rain lashed the windscreen. Classic me, managing to drip gravy down my shirt like a right numpty. But hey, that’s the joy of a spontaneous three-day jaunt to Thistledown, that gorgeous little cottage tucked away in Georgeham, just begging for a foodie escape.

Pulled up at last, mud splattered on the tyres, and there she was: Thistledown, all honeyed stone and thatched roof, nestled in a quiet spot with views over rolling fields towards the coast. First impressions? Bliss. The owner, a cheery local chap, handed over the keys with a nod to the welcome hamper – fresh eggs from nearby hens, a loaf of sourdough from the village bakery, and a bottle of Devon cider that screamed “crack me open”. I dumped my bags and fired up the Aga straight away. Cooking’s my love language on holiday, even if I’m rubbish at it half the time.

That first evening, I pottered about the kitchen, a cosy nook with herbs on the windowsill and pots hanging like they’re ready for action. Whipped up a simple supper: scrambled those eggs with a bit of smoked mackerel I’d grabbed from Braunton’s market that morning (fish so fresh it practically flapped). Slathered it on thick slices of that sourdough, toasted golden on the Aga hotplate. Paired it with the cider, sharp and fizzy, watching the sun dip behind the dunes. Proper feast, and not a takeaway in sight. Laughed at myself though – tried to chop onions without crying, ended up with eyes like a panda. Who needs fancy chefs when you’ve got a stocked pantry and zero pressure?

Next morning, first full day, I legged it to Georgeham’s village shop – five minutes down the lane, past woolly sheep eyeing me suspiciously. Stocked up on local gems: clotted cream from a dairy just up the road, plump strawberries from Croyde Bay pick-your-own (okay, I didn’t pick ’em, but they tasted like I did), and rashers of bacon from the butcher who swears his pigs are happier than most folk. Back at Thistleddown, breakfast was a full-on Devon fry-up: bacon sizzling, eggs poaching, mushrooms foraged in spirit from the garden (well, shop-bought, but wild-looking). Sat at the scrubbed oak table by the window, cream dolloped on strawberries for afters. First impressions of the place deepened – it’s made for this, lazy mornings where food takes centre stage.

Lunch called for adventure, so I wandered to The Old George Inn, the pub right in Georgeham’s heart. Proper thatched beauty, low beams that had me stooping like Quasimodo. Plumped for the day’s special: crab claws from Saunton Sands, picked that morning, with chips fat as fingers and a side of samphire for that salty kick. Pint of Exmoor Ale to wash it down – malty, smooth, the kind that makes you linger. Chatted with locals about the best spots for seafood; one bloke reckoned the pub’s chef sources straight from the boats. Back at the cottage, I fancied a go at pudding. Thistledown’s got this ace larder, so I attempted a crumble with those strawberries, clotted cream on standby. Bit lumpy, truth be told – oven mitts slipped, flour everywhere – but scoffed the lot with a cuppa, grinning like an idiot.

Evening brought reflection over a solo supper. I’d nipped to Braunton’s market again for venison steaks – local hunter’s haul, apparently. Grilled ’em rare on the cottage’s little BBQ out back, with new potatoes and a jug of gravy made from the pan scrapings. As I sat there, plate balanced on my knee, watching bats flit over the garden, it hit me: in the rush of city life, I forget how good it feels to slow down and just eat. No apps, no rush – just Thistledown’s magic turning simple grub into memories. Three days of this? Sign me up forever.