I finally made it to Portrush after a bit of a faff on the road from Belfast, our ancient Ford Fiesta deciding to throw a hissy fit with the sat nav just as we hit the A2. Picture this: me, the wife, and our two lads aged 8 and 10, all crammed in with bags of crisps and half-eaten pasties, when the screen freezes on some random spot near Coleraine. "Turn left in 200 yards!" it had barked, then nothing. We ended up doing a full U-turn in a layby, laughing our heads off as the boys shouted "Dad's lost again!" Classic family holiday start – nothing says relaxed getaway like a minor navigational cock-up.

Pulling into the car park at Rusty Barn felt like stumbling into a proper hidden gem. Tucked away in the Causeway Coast and Glens, just a short hop from Portrush's buzzing centre, this quirky converted barn screamed cosy Northern Ireland charm. The place is one of those self-catering spots that's all about kicking back – think low-beamed ceilings, a wood-burning stove that was already crackling away (cheers to the hosts for that touch), and a kitchen kitted out with everything from a massive Belfast sink to a retro toaster that pinged like it was auditioning for the 70s. We dumped our bags and the lads immediately claimed the bunk beds upstairs, whooping as they bounced on the mattresses. "This is better than home!" my youngest declared, which stung a tad but hey, fair play.

First impressions? Pure bliss with a side of delightful chaos. Stepping out the back door, you're right into a wee garden that's got sea views peeking through the hedges – Portrush's East Strand beach is literally a ten-minute stroll away. We didn't waste time; after unpacking (which mostly meant raiding the welcome hamper of local scones, jam, and a bottle of Bushmills – thoughtful or what?), we wandered down for a nose around. The beach was alive with dog-walkers, kite-flyers, and the odd surfer braving the Atlantic chill. The boys pelted stones into the waves, getting soaked up to their knees despite my half-hearted warnings. I joined in, skimishing a few flat ones across the water, feeling that simple joy you forget about in the daily grind.

Back at the barn by teatime, we cracked open fish and chips from one of Portrush's top chippies – crispy batter, mushy peas, the works – eaten straight out of the paper on the picnic bench. The sun dipped low over the coast, painting everything golden, and for a moment, it was perfect. Then chaos: the eldest lad knocked over his Vimto, staining the rug. Mild panic ensued as we dabbed at it with tea towels, the wife rolling her eyes at me ("Your holiday souvenir!"). But that's lodge life, innit? A bit of mess, a lot of laughs, and no one batting an eyelid.

As the evening wound down, we lit the stove properly and played board games by its glow – Monopoly, naturally, with the boys bankrupting me in record time. Sitting there, mug of tea in hand, listening to the distant crash of waves, I had one of those quiet reflective moments. Life at home's all rush and screens, but here at Rusty Barn, it's these unpolished bits – the spilled drinks, the beach sand everywhere, the shared giggles – that recharge the batteries. Who needs fancy spas when you've got this? Our three days were off to a cracker of a start, and I was already dreading the drive home. If you're after a proper family chill-out in Portrush, Rusty Barn's your spot – just double-check that sat nav.