I finally made it to Cairnwood Sea View in Ilfracombe after a bit of a faff on the drive down from Bristol. North Devon's roads are as twisty as a Devonshire lane should be, but I managed to take a wrong turn near Combe Martin, ending up in a queue of caravans that had me humming "Holiday Road" under my breath while cursing the satnav. Still, by mid-afternoon, I was pulling up to this gem of a cottage, bags stuffed with provisions from the MandS Simply Food in Barnstaple – because who arrives anywhere without a proper stocked cool bag?

First impressions? Blimey, Cairnwood didn't disappoint. Perched with that promised sea view over the Bristol Channel, the place is a cosy two-up-two-down with a kitchen that screamed "get cooking, lad." I dumped my bags and cracked open a tin of local Clotworthy pilchards – tinned fish being my travel staple after one too many soggy service station sarnies. Slathered on thick-sliced bread from the Ilfracombe co-op (grabbed en route), with a dollop of Branston pickle, it was the perfect "I've arrived" munch. The view from the window had waves crashing below, making even my rubbish picnic feel gourmet.

That evening, I fancied something proper, so I wandered down to the High Street, all of five minutes away. Ilfracombe's got that proper seaside vibe – chip shops glowing like beacons, the air thick with vinegar and salt. I hit The Carlton, a no-nonsense pub right by the harbour. Pint of Otter Ale first, naturally; it's crisp, malty, and goes down like a dream after a drive. Then, the star: their fish and chips, landed that morning from the boats bobbing outside. Cod the size of my forearm, batter so crisp it shattered, mushy peas on the side because I'm not a monster. I sat by the window, watching gulls squabble over scraps, feeling like I'd stumbled into a postcard. Light humour in the fact that I dripped tartare sauce down my shirt – classic me, turning every meal into a laundry emergency.

Next morning, first full day, I was up for the Ilfracombe Farmers' Market down by the pier. It's small but smashing – stalls heaving with pasties from local bakers, hunks of West Country cheddar that smell like heaven, and fresh crab straight off the boats. I loaded up: a couple of crab claws, some smoked mackerel, artisan bread studded with Devon olives (fancy, eh?), and a punnet of strawberries that tasted like summer squeezed into fruit form. Back at Cairnwood, my cooking attempt kicked off. The kitchen's got all the gear – sharp knives, a cracking Aga-style cooker – so I thought I'd channel my inner MasterChef. Crab salad it was: picked the meat (fingers got messy), tossed with mayo, lemon from the market, chucked on watercress. Paired with the mackerel grilled till smoky. Verdict? Not half bad, though I overseasoned the salt because of the sea air playing tricks. Ate on the patio, waves whooshing below, pint of Tribute from the fridge. Proper bliss.

Pub lunch called next, naturally. The George and Dragon up the hill – another gem within spitting distance – does a cracking Ploughman's. Mature cheddar, ham off the bone, pickled onions that bite back, all washed down with a cheeky cider. I reflected there, fork midway to mouth, on how these simple feeds ground you. Work back home's been a grind, emails piling up like unwashed pots, but here, tucking into local grub with the sea symphony outside, it's a gentle nudge: slow down, savour it. No pretentious fusion bollocks, just honest North Devon nosh that hits the spot.

Evening wrapped with a "gourmet" cottage supper: pasty reheated (market find, stuffed with proper steak and swede), with a side of those strawberries and clotted cream from a dairy stall. Tried making a crumble but botched the pastry – ended up as a sloppy pud, but who cares? Spooned it straight from the dish, telly on low, sea view glowing in the dusk. Cairnwood Sea View's first impressions? It's the kind of place where the food scene – markets, pubs, kitchen faffs – makes you feel right at home, mishaps and all. Can't wait for day two's feasts.