I finally made it to Saundersfoot after a bit of a faff on the drive down from Carmarthen. I'd taken a wrong turn onto some narrow lane that Google Maps swore was a shortcut, only to end up nose-to-tail with a flock of sheep being herded by a farmer in wellies who gave me a proper Welsh glare. "Not the first time, mind," he chuckled as I reversed sheepishly back to the main road. By the time I pulled up to Galwad Y Mor Lodge that Friday afternoon, I was starving and ready for whatever coastal grub this Pembrokeshire gem had in store.

The lodge itself is a proper treat right on the edge of Saundersfoot—think cosy wooden cladding, sea views that hit you like a tonic, and that fresh briny air wafting in. I dumped my bags, cracked open the windows, and the first thing that struck me was the kitchen. Spotless, well-stocked with pots and pans, and a fridge begging to be filled. No faffing about with hotel room service here; this was my chance to play house by the sea. First impressions? It screamed "self-catering heaven" for a foodie like me, especially with the harbour just a five-minute stroll away.

I legged it down to the village straight away, dodging the seagulls eyeing up my chips from the off. Saundersfoot's harbour is buzzing on a summer's eve—fishermen unloading the catch, punters spilling out of pubs, and that irresistible smell of fish and chips frying. I popped into the local market stall by the quay, where a cheery bloke with a thick Pembrokeshire accent sold me the freshest mackerel you've ever seen, still glistening from the sea, plus some plump tomatoes and crusty bread from a nearby bakery. "Best bait for the pan, love," he winked. Two quid for the lot—bargain!

Back at the lodge, I fired up the hob for my inaugural cook-up. Now, I'm no Jamie Oliver, but I gave that mackerel a go: gutted it (messily), slashed the sides, stuffed with lemon and herbs pinched from the window box, and grilled it till the skin crisped. Paired it with a simple salad and a cold Peroni from the offie. Sat out on the deck as the sun dipped over the bay, tucking in with the waves crashing below. Blimey, it was lush—flaky, smoky, miles better than anything pre-packed. First impressions of Galwad Y Mor? The perfect base for faffing about in the kitchen without feeling like a spare part.

Saturday morning, I was up early, lured by the aroma of bacon from the St Brides Inn just down the road. Popped in for a full Welsh brekkie: laverbread (that salty seaweed mush that's oddly addictive), cockles, bacon, eggs, and black pudding, all washed down with a pot of builder's tea. The landlady, a proper character named Gwen, regaled me with tales of the day's catch while I scoffed. "Don't overdo the cockles, or you'll be waddling," she teased. Fuelled up, I wandered to the butchers on Frances Street for sausages and ribs—local pork, none of your supermarket rubbish—and stocked up on cheeses from the deli next door. Cheeseboard dreams forming already.

Lunch was a comedy of errors back at the lodge. I'd bought these massive local crab claws from the harbour fishmonger, thinking I'd crack 'em like a pro with a wooden mallet. Splinters everywhere, bits flying, and I ended up with more shell than meat. Laughed my head off, hoovered up what I could with butter and bread, then finished with a pasty from the Saundersfoot Bakery—steak and ale, steaming hot, proper carb heaven. Afternoon slump? Sorted with a pint ofBrains Bitter at the Carew Inn, just a hop away, where the barman pulled a perfect one and the fish finger sarnies were a cheeky steal.

Evening brought the highlight: a solo feast I'd prepped. Roasted those butcher's ribs low and slow in the lodge oven, slathered in local honey and mustard, served with spuds from the market and a cheeky bottle of Welsh red. As I sat there, plate scraped clean, gazing at the twinkling lights of Tenby across the bay, I had a proper moment. Life's too short for rushed eats, innit? Here, miles from the daily grind, faffing over fresh food felt like the real holiday magic. Galwad Y Mor Lodge nailed those first impressions—cosy, convenient, and crying out for more meals like that. Can't wait to return for seconds.