I finally made it to Shepherds Hut The Crook after a bit of a faff on the drive down from the motorway. Picture this: I'd packed the car with enough provisions to feed a small army – fresh bread from the Co-op back home, a slab of Welsh cheddar, and a bottle of that decent red from the offie – but about five miles from Milford Haven, I managed to take a wrong turn onto a narrow lane that dead-ended at some farmer's gate. Classic me, innit? Sat there cursing the satnav while a cheeky sheep eyed me up like I was the intruder. Twenty minutes later, I was back on track, pulling up to this gorgeous little shepherds hut tucked away in the crook of a peaceful field just outside Milford Haven. The sun was dipping low, casting that golden Pembrokeshire glow over everything, and I thought, yeah, this three-day escape is off to a proper start.

First impressions? Blimey, it was love at first sight. The hut itself is this cosy wooden gem on wheels, all rustic charm with a veranda that begs for a GandT at sunset. Inside, it's compact but brilliant – a double bed piled high with quilts, a wee kitchenette that screamed "rustic self-catering heaven," and a wood-burning stove ready to chase away any coastal chill. But let's be honest, the real star here is how it sets you up for feasting like a local. No sooner had I dumped my bags than I was cracking open that cheddar with some crackers, gazing out at the rolling fields. The hosts had left a welcome pack: fresh eggs from their own hens, a jar of local honey, and a note pointing me to the best spots for scran within a stone's throw.

Hunger properly kicked in, so I wandered down to the nearby marina area – it's only a couple of minutes' drive – and hit up the little market by the water. Pembrokeshire does markets like nowhere else; stalls groaning under crab claws straight from the boats, glistening mackerel, and wheels of caerphilly cheese that could make you weep. I nabbed a couple of fresh crab sandwiches wrapped in paper, still warm from the fisherman's stove, and a punnet of strawberries that tasted like summer in a bite. Back at the hut, I fired up the hob for my first "gourmet" attempt: crab on toast with a dollop of that honey-drizzled cheddar melted on top. It was messy, gloriously so – half of it ended up on my chin – but washed down with my red wine on the veranda, it felt like Michelin-star stuff. Laughed at myself thinking, who needs posh restaurants when you've got this?

Evening called for a pub crawl, Pembrokeshire-style. The Crook's spot means you're spoilt for choice nearby. First stop: a proper boozer in Milford Haven, maybe the Lord Nelson, just a quick hop away. I plonked down at the bar for a pint of Brains Bitter – crisp, malty perfection – and their fish pie special. Flaky cod and prawns in a creamy mash topping, served with mushy peas that were spot-on. Chatted with a couple of locals about the day's catch; turns out the crab I'd bought was from the same lads supplying the pub. Light humour ensued when I admitted my cooking mishap – "Lad, next time leave it to us!" they ribbed. Belly full, I staggered back to the hut, stove crackling as I warmed a slab of the leftover pie for a midnight snack.

Next morning, first impressions deepened over breakfast. Those host eggs fried up with market bacon – smoky, thick-cut rashers from a nearby farm shop – and doorstep toast slathered in butter. Sat there on the veranda, coffee steaming, I had a gentle moment of reflection: life's mad rush back home, and here I am, three days in, already slowed down by the simple joy of cooking what’s fresh and local. No fancy gadgets, just me faffing about with a frying pan, but it tasted like freedom. Lunched on a picnic of smoked mackerel pâté on oatcakes, nicked from the market, then headed to another gem, the pill pub by the docks for a ploughman's – mature cheddar, pickled onions, and a doorstop of bread that could chock a wheel.

By day two's end, after a curry attempt gone hilariously wrong (shop-bought naan turned to charcoal on the hob), I'd nailed a seafood chowder with cream, market fish, and a splash of pub-bought ale. Shepherds Hut The Crook isn't just a stay; it's a launchpad for Pembrokeshire's foodie soul – markets buzzing, pubs heaving with hearty plates, and your own little kitchen for triumphant (or comically failed) experiments. If you're after that, book it. I didn't want to leave.