I finally made it to Bakewell after a bit of a faff on the journey down from Manchester. I'd set off full of beans, playlist blasting some indie tunes, but then the sat-nav decided to have a hissy fit just as I hit the twisty Peak District roads. Sent me down a single-track lane that ended in a muddy farmyard, with a cow staring at me like I'd gatecrashed its tea party. A quick reverse and a detour later, I rolled into town, heart racing but grinning at the absurdity of it all. Spotting the uber-cool apartment tucked in the heart of the Derbyshire Dales, my first impressions were spot on – it screamed perfect bolthole for a solo wanderer like me, all cosy and stylish without trying too hard.

No sooner had I dumped my bags than the anticipation kicked in proper. Bakewell's got that magical pull, doesn't it? Especially when your belly's rumbling. I legged it straight out for a first taste of the town's legendary Bakewell pudding from one of the old-school bakeries on the high street. Warm, flaky pastry with that jammy almond sponge – pure bliss, and at a fiver a pop, it felt like highway robbery in reverse. I scoffed it on a bench by the River Wye, watching the world go by, already plotting the next feed.

Evenings were all about the pubs, those proper locals where the beer's cold and the chatter's warm. The Rutland Arms became my haunt – a cracking pint of Peak Ales, pulled just right, followed by a pie that was all buttery pastry hugging tender beef and gravy you could swim in. I got chatting with a couple of regulars over their shepherd's pie specials; one bloke swore by the sticky toffee pudding chaser, and who was I to argue? Another night, I tried The Woodyard, where the fish and chips were monsters – golden batter, chunky cod, mushy peas on the side. Sat outside under the fairy lights, it felt like the Dales were putting on a show just for me.

But the real fun was playing house in the apartment's slick little kitchen. I'd nipped to the weekly Bakewell market first thing Saturday, basket brimming with local cheeses, plump tomatoes from nearby growers, and a slab of Derbyshire oatcake mix. Attempted a fry-up with black pudding and local bacon – turned out half-decent, though I nearly set off the smoke alarm juggling the sausages. Self-reflection moment: turns out I'm better at eating than cooking, but there's something dead satisfying about rustling up a meal with Dales-fresh ingredients, radio on, no rush. Paired it with a stroll to the Monsal Trail for a gentle walk-off, but let's be honest, my mind was already back on lunch.

One highlight was a cheeky lunch at a café by Bakewell Bridge – ploughman's with tangy pickle and crusty bread that stuck to your ribs. And don't get me started on the afternoon tea spots; I demolished scones with clotted cream so thick it was practically a dessert in disguise. By the end of the week, I'd ballooned a stone (or so it felt), but who cares? Bakewell's food scene is a love letter to hearty, no-nonsense grub – pubs firing out roasts on Sundays, markets tempting with pork pies, and bakeries that make you weak at the knees. If you're after a holiday where every moment revolves around the next brilliant bite, this is your spot. I drove home vowing to return, belly full and soul happier for it.