I finally rolled into Weymouth after a bit of a faff on the A354 from Dorchester – nothing major, just a rogue seagull dive-bombing my windscreen and leaving a splatter that turned my wipers into a comedy routine. By the time I pulled up outside Garland, that quaint little cottage tucked away in the heart of Weymouth's old town, I was starving and ready for whatever grub this seaside gem had in store. It's one of those proper Dorset boltholes: stone walls, a cosy kitchen that screams "whip up a fry-up", and a stone's throw from the harbour where the fishing boats bob about like they've got all day.

First impressions? Blimey, Garland hit the spot right off. I dumped my bags in the snug lounge, with its squishy sofa begging for a post-prandial slump, and beelined for the kitchen. The owners had stocked the basics – tea, milk, a loaf of bread that was still soft – but I was proper geared up for a self-catering stint. Weymouth's got that brilliant mix of chippy vibes and proper eateries, so I nipped out to the Friday market on St Thomas Street, just a five-minute wander. Stalls heaving with fresh Dorset seafood: glistening mackerel, plump scallops from Portland Bill, and crab straight off the boats. I haggled a bit with a cheery fisherman for a couple of whole bass – £8 the pair, bargain – and grabbed some new potatoes and samphire from the veg man. Felt like a local already.

Back at Garland, I fired up the hob for my grand arrival feast. Now, I'm no Gordon Ramsay, but I reckoned I could handle grilling those bass with a bit of lemon and herbs from the cottage's windowsill pot. Disaster struck mildly when the smoke alarm kicked off – turns out I got a tad overzealous with the oil, filling the place with what smelled like a chip shop on fire. Laughing at myself, I cracked a window, salvaged the fish (crispy skin, mind), and plated it up with the samphire steamed just right. Sat at the little dining table overlooking the street, pint of local Palmers ale from the fridge (I'd grabbed a four-pack en route), and scoffed the lot. Proper fresh, that sea taste hitting like a wave. First meal in, and Garland was already winning for its no-fuss cooking setup.

Evening called for a pub crawl – Weymouth's got 'em in spades within spitting distance. Strolled to The Boot next to the harbour, a proper old boozer with beams low enough to duck. Settled in with locals nursing pints, ordered a pint of Weymouth Brewery's plasma IPA – citrusy and spot on – and their fish pie special. Creamy mash, flaky haddock, peas on the side; it was comfort food heaven after my kitchen antics. Chatted to a bloke about the best crab spots, him swearing by the ones from the beach huts down by Greenhill. Light-hearted ribbing about my seagull story had the bar chuckling.

Next morning, day two kicked off with a full English in Garland's kitchen. Sausages and bacon from the market's butcher stall the day before, fried eggs spluttering in the pan – this time no alarms, victory! – and toast slathered in marmalade. Fuelled up, I wandered to the beachfront stalls for elevenses: a crab sandwich from one of those huts, claws picked fresh that morning, mayo just right, eaten on a bench watching paddleboarders wipe out. Hilarious, really – one chap did a full somersault into the shallows.

Lunch was back at the cottage, attempting a pasty from the Weymouth market bakery – proper Cornish-style, lamb and mint, but I warmed it in the oven and added a cheeky salad from the fridge veg. Pub o'clock hit at The Royal Oak, a cracking spot by the quay. Their seafood platter for one – prawns, mussels, squid rings – with chips and a wedge of lemon, washed down with a crisp white from their decent wine list. Greasy fingers and all, it was pure holiday bliss.

By day three's brekkie, Garland felt like home. Scrambled eggs on toast, using up the last of the market butter, pondering how daft it is rushing through life back in the city when spots like this make eating so blooming simple and joyful. Those first impressions? They've got me plotting a return, fork at the ready.