I set off from Cardiff on a Friday lunchtime, the boot of the car packed with bags and a slightly optimistic plan to stop for something decent en route. Ten minutes after leaving the A48 I realised I’d forgotten the cooler bag with the sausages and bacon, so we had to double back, which turned the journey into something closer to a slow loop than a straight drive. Still, by mid-afternoon we were pulling up the narrow track to Cabin No. 14, Salt and Fern Cabins, just outside Port Talbot. The wooden porch caught the low winter sun and the smell of pine drifted straight into the car the moment I opened the door.

Inside it felt instantly homely. The kitchen was small but perfectly stocked with decent pans and a proper kettle, so we unpacked the bits we’d rescued from the supermarket in Neath and got straight to work on a late lunch. I’d grabbed a couple of Welsh cakes from the stall in Port Talbot market earlier that morning, and we toasted them on the Aga while the kettle boiled. The table by the window looked out over the garden and the hills beyond, and we sat there with mugs of tea, crumbs everywhere, already feeling like we’d switched off.

By early evening the light had gone and we wandered down the lane into the village for our first proper meal out. The little pub on the corner had a roaring fire and a blackboard that promised cawl and fresh bread. We ordered two bowls, thick with lamb and leeks, and shared a plate of laverbread cakes on the side. It was the sort of food that makes you want to slow down, so we did, chatting with the couple at the next table who’d been coming for years. On the walk back the air was sharp and the stars were out; I caught myself thinking how rarely I actually notice the sky when I’m at home.

Saturday morning we decided to cook properly. The market in Port Talbot was only a short drive, and we spent a happy half-hour choosing fresh cockles, a slab of mature cheddar, and a bag of early forced rhubarb from a stall that looked like it had been there since the 1970s. Back at the cabin we attempted a sort of cockle chowder, which turned out thicker than intended but still tasted brilliant with the crusty loaf we’d bought. The kitchen windows steamed up while we stirred, and the whole place smelled like the seaside. Later we took the leftovers down to the little picnic bench outside, wrapped in coats, and finished them while the sun tried its best to break through.

That evening we tried the other pub, a short stroll across the fields. The menu was short and honest: pork pie with piccalilli, local sausages, and a crumble made with the same rhubarb we’d seen earlier. We ordered one of each and shared, washing it down with a pint of the local bitter. I ended up chatting to the landlord about where the meat came from, and he laughed when I admitted our chowder attempt had been more stew than soup. It felt easy, the sort of conversation you only have when you’re not in a rush.

Sunday was our last full day, so we kept it simple. We walked into the village again for a late breakfast at the café that opens early for the market traders. The eggs were from a farm just up the road and the bacon was crisp in the way you only get when someone’s actually paying attention. We bought a couple of extra Welsh cakes for the road and lingered over another pot of tea, watching people come and go with their shopping bags. Back at the cabin we made one last attempt at cooking, this time a simple fry-up using what was left in the fridge. It wasn’t fancy, but sitting there with the last of the market bread and a view of the hills, it felt exactly right for the end of a weekend.

As we packed the car I realised how much of the trip had revolved around what we’d eaten and where we’d found it. The cabin had given us the space to try, fail a little, and still enjoy every mouthful, and the local places had made the whole thing feel rooted. I left wondering whether three days is ever quite enough when the food keeps pulling you back in.