I finally made it to Barmouth after a bit of a faff on the A496 – nothing major, just me taking a wrong turn near Llanbedr and ending up in a queue of caravans crawling along like they were auditioning for a snail documentary. Still, the views over Cardigan Bay made up for it, and by early afternoon, I was pulling up to Y Goedlan, this cosy stone cottage tucked away in a quiet spot just a short hop from Tywyn's high street. First impressions? Proper welcoming – the kind of place that feels like a hug from an old mate, with its low-beamed ceilings and that faint sea-salt tang in the air.

I dumped my bags and headed straight for the kitchen, starving after the drive. Y Goedlan's got this brilliant setup for self-catering: a proper Aga cooker that looks like it's seen a few Sunday roasts in its time, and a fridge begging to be stocked. But first things first – a wander to Tywyn's high street, all of five minutes away on foot. The little market there was in full swing, stalls groaning under fresh crab from Barmouth's harbour, local cheeses that could make a vegan reconsider, and veg so dirt-speckled you know it's the good stuff. I grabbed a bag of mussels, some smoked mackerel, and a loaf of bara brith from a cheery baker who insisted on throwing in a slab of Welsh cake "for the road, bach".

Back at the cottage, cooking attempt number one: mussels in garlic and white wine, using a bottle of something cheap and cheerful from the offy. Disaster narrowly averted – I forgot the lid at first, and the kitchen filled with steam like a Turkish bath. But they turned out lush, slurped down with crusty bread at the wooden table overlooking the garden. Paired with a pint of Brains from the fridge (I'd nipped in for supplies), it felt like proper holiday grub. Sat there reflecting a bit, fork in hand, on how I never bother cooking like this at home – too knackered from the daily grind. Here, though, with the sun dipping low, it was dead easy to channel my inner Nigel Slater.

Evening called for a pub crawl – well, more of a gentle amble. First stop, the Peniarth Arms, just down the lane in Tywyn. Proper local vibe: dark wood, roaring fire (even in summer, mind), and a pint of Felinfoel Double Dragon that slid down a treat. Landlord recommended their fish pie – flaky cod and prawns in a creamy mash topping, proper comfort food after my coastal detour. I demolished it, chatting with a couple of regulars about the best spots for cockles. Light bulb moment: why don't I do this more? Just park myself in a pub, eat hearty, and let the world spin.

Next day, breakfast was my show again. Y Goedlan's larder shelves are genius for this – I fried up that smoked mackerel with eggs from the market, black pudding on the side (Tywyn butchers do a cracking one, herby and not too greasy). Burnt the toast slightly, mind – classic me, all enthusiasm, no patience. Ate it on the patio, watching gulls squawk over the estuary, feeling smug about dodging hotel buffets.

Lunch was a picnic pie from the high street deli – ham, cheese, and chutney in flaky pastry – washed down with local cider at the Talyllyn Railway Inn nearby. Their ploughman's was tempting too, but I saved room for dinner back at base: a stab at cawl, that Welsh lamb stew. Markets supplied the neck end and leeks; the Aga simmered it low and slow. Came out a tad watery first go, but with some bread to mop up, it hit the spot. Pub encore at the Whitehall, where I tried their rarebit – gooey cheddar on toast with a kick of mustard. Bloody brilliant, and the barmaid's banter had me in stitches about my "gourmet" cooking disasters.

By day three's brunch – bacon sarnies with market tomatoes – I was hooked on this rhythm: forage local, cook simple, pub polish. Y Goedlan's magic isn't just the beams or the sea glimpses; it's how it turns you into a half-decent food explorer, one mishap at a time. Proper tonic for the soul.