Just got back from the most brilliant week in a cosy holiday cottage tucked away in the Peak District, and honestly, the food was the absolute star of the show. Picture this: a stone-built gem near Bakewell, with a cracking kitchen that had me dreaming of MasterChef moments from day one. I arrived starving after the drive from London, so first stop was the village pub – a proper Derbyshire local called The Bulls Head in Monyash, all low beams and roaring fire. I tucked into a pint of local Marston's Pedigree and a plate of Derbyshire oatcakes stuffed with melted cheese and bacon. Blimey, those oatcakes are no joke – hearty, savoury slabs that stuck to my ribs like glue. I joked to the barman that I'd need rolling back to the cottage, and he laughed, saying that's how they keep hikers coming back.

Next morning, I pottered over to Bakewell's Tuesday market, a proper treasure trove of Derbyshire grub. Stalls heaving with pork pies the size of my fist (the Mr Kipling ones are famous, but these handmade beauties with chunky apple chutney were next level), bags of fudge, and jars of that tangy Bramley apple jam. I grabbed a load for the cottage larder, plus some local cheeses – Buxton Blue, sharp and creamy, perfect for nibbling. Back home, I fancied myself a chef and attempted a Bakewell tart. Recipe said "simple," but my pastry turned into a crumbly disaster. Laughing at my soggy bottom (Great British Bake Off vibes, anyone?), I salvaged it with extra raspberry jam and a dollop of clotted cream from the market. Washed down with a cuppa, it hit the spot – though I reflected there, pastry skills clearly aren't my spiritual gift.

Evenings were pub crawls with a twist. One night at The Devonshire Arms in Beeley, I had the Sunday roast even though it was Wednesday – who needs rules? Tender roast beef, Yorkshire puds puffed like clouds, and lashings of gravy made from real meat stock. Paired with a cheeky glass of Derbyshire red from the Peaks vineyards, it was pure bliss. Another evening, I tried cooking again: pan-fried trout from the River Derwent (fresh from a local fisherman's stall) with new potatoes and watercress salad. Turned out alright, if I say so myself, but I burned the edges – gentle reminder that I'm better at eating than faffing in the kitchen.

Midweek, we hit Ashbourne for their food festival vibes (they do a mean one), snagging hog roast baps and sticky toffee pudding that had me moaning in delight. The cottage's Aga kept everything toasty, and I'd mull over a pint of Timothy Taylor's Landlord, pondering how food like this grounds you. No fancy restaurants needed; it's the pub grub, market hauls, and my hilarious kitchen flops that made it unforgettable. Derbyshire, you've ruined me for supermarket meals – can't wait to go back for more.