I finally made it to Saundersfoot after a bit of a faff on the drive down from Narberth – nothing major, just a rogue seagull dive-bombing my windscreen with what looked suspiciously like a chip, forcing me into an impromptu car wash stop in Tenby. Laughed it off as a proper Welsh welcome, wiped the mess, and carried on, gut rumbling for some proper scran.

Pulling up to Hornbeam Lodge 3 that first afternoon, I was chuffed to bits. Tucked in a quiet spot just a short stroll from the harbour, it's one of those cosy lodges that screams "relax and stuff your face." The wooden porch was begging for a cuppa, and inside, the kitchen was a dream – gleaming hob, massive fridge, and a table big enough for solo feasts or mates if I'd brought 'em. First impressions? This place was made for grazing holidays. No faffing about with fancy bookings; I was here to cook, pub-hop, and devour Saundersfoot's grub scene.

Unpacked my cool bag – stocked with basics from the Spar up the road – and got cracking on lunch. Whipped up a quick ploughman's from local cheddar I'd nabbed en route (proper tangy stuff, none of your supermarket rubbish) with crusty bread, pickle, and a slab of ham. Sat by the window overlooking the bay, munching away, watching fishing boats bob about. The lodge's vibe is spot on for this: compact but comfy, with that sea air wafting in, making every bite taste better. Felt a right proper chef already, though I did nearly set off the smoke alarm faffing with the toaster.

By teatime, I was itching for the real deal, so wandered down to the harbour. Saundersfoot's got this brilliant little cluster of eateries – no chains, just proper local gems. Popped into The Mermaid first, a cracking pub right on the front. Pulled up a stool at the bar, ordered a pint of Pembrokeshire ale (smooth as, with a hoppy kick), and went for their fish and chips. Fresh catch from the boats that morning, battered to golden perfection, with mushy peas that were spot on – not too vinegary. The chips? Chunky, sea-salty heaven. Chatted with the barman about the day's catch; turns out mackerel was flying off the hooks. Light-hearted banter flowed, and I couldn't help but chuckle at myself – three hours in, and I'd already planned tomorrow's fry-up around it.

Back at the lodge for a breather, I fancied a proper cook-up. Nipped to the farmers' market stall by the beach (runs weekends, but they had pop-ups even midweek) for crab claws, fresh bread, and some Welsh cakes still warm from the griddle. In the kitchen, I attempted a seafood linguine – claws cracked open, tossed with garlic, chilli, and a splash of cream from the local dairy. Smelled divine, but let's be honest, it was a heroic mess: pasta stuck to the pan like glue, and I overdid the chilli, turning it into a fiery dragon. Laughed till I cried, scraping it onto a plate anyway. Paired it with a cheeky glass of white from the offy, devoured by the log burner (gas one, mind – no chopping wood for this lazy sod). First night, and the lodge felt like home, all steamy windows and satisfied belly.

Next morning – day two dawned misty – I started with a full brekkie assault. Bacon sarnies from rashers bought at the butcher's near the post office, fried up with eggs and black pudding. The hob heated quick as a flash, and I slathered on HP sauce, scoffing while plotting the day's eats. Mid-morning, sauntered to The Glen for a coffee and bara brith – that fruit loaf is legendary here, sticky and spiced, perfect with a brew overlooking the sands.

Pub lunch called next: The Royal Oak, a snug local with beams and real fire. Went for a rarebit – bubbling cheese on toast, rich and gooey, with a side of pickled onions that zinged. Pint of bitter to wash it down, and I was in bliss. Evening? Back to the lodge for cawl – nabbed lamb and leeks from the market man. Slow-simmered it on the stove, came out hearty and warming, though I skimped on the salt and had to doctor it with a dash from the pub's stash I'd "borrowed" in my head.

Reflecting over that last forkful on day three's brekkie (smoked kippers, courtesy of the harbour fishmonger), I realised this trip was a gentle nudge: life's too short for rubbish food. Hornbeam Lodge 3 nailed it – a base for feasting without the fuss. Saundersfoot's eats had me hooked; if you're partial to proper nosh and a laugh at your own cooking disasters, book it. I'm already plotting the return for more.