I finally made it to that 2 Bed Lodge in Kentisbury after a bit of a faff on the journey down from Bristol. I'd set off bright and early, buzzing about this three-day jaunt in North Devon, but wouldn't you know it, about halfway through, I realised I'd left my posh olive oil at home. Proper muppet moment—me swerving into a layby on the A39, rummaging through the boot like a deranged squirrel, only to find a half-empty bottle of cooking oil from last week's chippy tea. Laughable, really, but it set the tone for a weekend all about embracing the local grub and cobbling together feasts in this cosy little lodge.

Pulling up to the place just before lunch on that first Friday, I was starving. Kentisbury's one of those tucked-away North Devon spots where the lanes twist like a bad perm, fringed by hedgerows bursting with blackberries. The lodge itself is a proper gem—wooden-clad, perched on the edge of Exmoor with views that make you forget the world. But let's be honest, my first thought wasn't the scenery; it was "right, where's the kitchen?" I dumped my bags, cracked open the fridge (blissfully stocked with basics from the hosts), and headed straight out to sort some proper scran.

First stop was the little village shop not five minutes away—think quintessential Devon: shelves groaning with pasties, clotted cream, and jars of local honey. I grabbed a couple of those massive sausage rolls, still warm from the oven, and some fresh veg that looked like it'd been plucked that morning. Back at the lodge, I fired up the Aga-style cooker for my grand arrival lunch. Sliced up some cheddar from a nearby farm (I'd spotted the sign on the way in), slapped it on crusty bread with chutney, and voilà—ploughman's that could've fed a small army. Sat at the wooden table by the window, munching away, I couldn't help chuckling at how my "gourmet" plan had devolved into pub grub vibes already. The light streaming in, steam rising from my mug of builder's tea—it felt like instant holiday magic.

That evening, hunger struck again, so I wandered down to the Kentisbury Crown, the local pub just a hop away. Proper North Devon boozer: low beams, roaring fire, and a menu scribbled on a blackboard promising Devonshire comforts. I went for the fish pie—creamy, packed with proper smoked haddock from Bideford way, topped with mash that was all buttery bliss. Paired it with a pint of Exmoor Ale, golden and malty, chatting with the barman about the best spots for crab (turns out, there's a fisherman's shed round the corner). The place was buzzing with locals, all ruddy-cheeked from the moors, swapping stories over cider. I staggered back to the lodge under a starry sky, belly full, thinking how daft it was that I'd stressed over packing fancy ingredients when this lot was right on the doorstep.

Next morning—my first full day—I attempted a "chefy" brekkie to redeem my oil blunder. Nipped to the same shop for eggs from free-range hens down the lane, bacon smoked on-site, and tomatoes so red they practically glowed. Fried it all up in the lodge's well-equipped kitchen, the sizzle echoing off the beams. Burnt the toast a tad (note to self: Aga timers are trickier than they look), but scoffing it on the patio with black coffee, watching mist lift off the fields? Pure joy. Lunch was a picnic of local cheeses and pasties I'd stockpiled, eaten al fresco while pondering how I've spent too long in city rush, missing these simple, soil-fresh feeds.

By tea time, I'd graduated to a lodge supper: roasted a chicken (finally using that dodgy oil) stuffed with herbs from the garden patch, served with spuds dug from a nearby farm stall. It wasn't MasterChef, but washing it down with a bottle of Devon red from the pub felt like a win. That first 24 hours in Kentisbury taught me something gentle—sometimes the best holidays aren't about grand plans, but savouring the feast of the familiar, one mishap-fuelled meal at a time. Can't wait to return for seconds.