I finally made it to Portrush after a bit of a faff on the road from Belfast – nothing major, just me spilling half my flask of tea all over the passenger seat about ten miles out, turning my rental car into a soggy sauna. Still, by early afternoon, I was trundling up the winding lane towards Binevenagh Point Cabin, that cheeky little gem tucked away on the edge of the Causeway Coast, with views that make you forget your damp trousers in a heartbeat. Portrush welcomed me with that classic Northern Irish drizzle, but the cabin's wooden porch was bone dry, and as I unlocked the door, the smell of sea salt mixed with fresh linen hit me like a warm hug.

First impressions? Blimey, this place is proper cosy – a proper wee hideaway with a compact kitchen that screamed "cook up a storm, you lazy sod." No faffing about with fancy restaurants on day one; I was straight into unpacking my Waitrose haul from the Spar in town. I'd nipped in on the way, grabbing local sausages from the butcher's counter, a loaf of wheaten bread still warm from the oven, and a slab of Coleraine cheddar that could stop traffic. The cabin's got this brilliant Aga-style cooker, all glowing and inviting, so I set about frying up a full Ulster fry for arrival fuel. Sausages spitting, bacon curling at the edges, soda farls browning nicely – though I nearly set off the smoke alarm when I overdid the black pudding. Laughable, really; me, the self-proclaimed kitchen ninja, waving a tea towel like a matador. Sat out on the deck with my plate, overlooking the lough, it tasted like victory. That tea mishap forgotten, I scoffed the lot, washed down with a mug of builder's brew.

Evening rolled in quick, and with the light fading over Binevenagh's slopes, I fancied a proper pub crawl to bed in the vibes. Portrush's East Strand is just a short hop away – five minutes in the car, windows down, radio blasting some trad tunes. First stop: The Giant’s Causeway Inn, or maybe it was the Harbour Bar, but either way, it was one of those no-nonsense locals with sticky tables and the best fish suppers this side of the Bann. I went for the haddock in batter, chips fat and golden, mushy peas on the side – pure comfort after the drive. The barman, a cheery sort with a Causeway accent thick as clotted cream, recommended a pint of Harp to wash it down. "Settles the stomach, lad," he winked. Sat there nursing it, eavesdropping on fishermen yarns, I felt that gentle pull of reflection: life's too short for rubbish scran and stiff pints; this was the good stuff, simple as.

Back at the cabin by nine, buzzing from the pub, I couldn't resist another crack at the kitchen. Raided my bags for crab claws from the East Lighthouse fish shed – picked 'em up fresh that afternoon, bright red and begging to be cracked. Whipped up a garlic butter sauce (burnt it slightly, mind, but who cares?), steamed some spuds from the Limavady market stall I'd spotted en route, and cracked open a bottle of Bushmills from the offie. Eating at the cabin's wee oak table, fairy lights twinkling outside, it was bliss. The crab was sweet as sin, the potatoes fluffy – my cooking attempt a solid seven out of ten, redeemed by the view of the moonlit water.

Next morning – still day one in my book, as jet lag had me up at dawn – I wandered to the Peninsula's Ramore complex for breakfast burritos with local black pudding and scrambled eggs from free-range hens down the road. Fuelled up, back to the cabin for elevenses: scones from Kelly’s bakery in town, slathered in jam and cream I'd whipped myself (success!). Lunch was a picnic of smoked salmon sandwiches on the cabin deck, sourced from the harbour smokehouse – flaky, oily perfection. Pub number two for elevenses pints: a sneaky half at The View, overlooking the strands, with pork scratchings that were moreish as hell.

By dusk, after a failed attempt at soda bread (flat as a witch's tit, hilariously), I hit Kelly’s again for their legendary battered cod supper to go. Curled up on the cabin sofa, telly murmuring, I munched away, pondering how three days of this – food, pubs, and failed bakes – was exactly the reset I needed. Portrush and Binevenagh Point Cabin? They've ruined me for holidays without a fry-up view. Can't wait for day two's feasts.