Just got back from the most cracking week in a cosy holiday cottage in the Peak District, and blimey, I’ve never eaten so well on holiday. Tucked away near Bakewell in this stone-built gem with a cracking kitchen and a wood-burning stove, it was the perfect spot for me to finally pretend I’m a proper chef—though let’s be honest, my efforts were more comedy than MasterChef.

First morning, I pottered down to Bakewell’s Tuesday market, arms laden with fresh produce. Derbyshire’s markets are a proper treat: piles of local cheeses, plump tomatoes from nearby farms, and the famous Bakewell puddings—none of your shop-bought rubbish, these were straight from the bakery, still warm and oozing almondy goodness. I snaffled a couple for breakfast, slathered with clotted cream from a Peak District dairy. Reflection time: staring at that flaky pastry, I realised how often I rush meals back home. Here, eating slow felt like a luxury.

Lunch was a cheeky picnic I rustled up—Derbyshire oatcakes stuffed with ham and pickle from the market, plus some proper pork pies that were so moreish I nearly polished off the lot before we’d even set off walking. But the real stars were the evenings at the local pubs. Our first night, we ambled to The Bulls Head in Monyash, a classic Derbyshire boozer with beams low enough to give you a gentle conk if you’re not careful (note to self: mind the head). I went for the slow-cooked Derbyshire beef pie, flaky pastry hiding tender meat in a rich gravy, washed down with a pint of Marston’s Pedigree. Mate behind the bar reckoned the beef was from a farm just over the hill—couldn’t get more local if you grew it yourself.

Back at the cottage, I got ambitious with dinner. Armed with venison haunch from Ashbourne’s butcher (spotting those markets had me hooked), I tried a slow-roast with rosemary from the garden and a jug of red wine gravy. It wasn’t half bad, though I did set off the smoke alarm once—humour in the haze, as my other half called it, coughing and laughing while waving a tea towel. We paired it with a Bakewell tart I baked (well, mostly followed the packet, but who’s judging?). Gentle self-reflection there: cooking disasters remind me it’s the faffing about together that makes it, not perfection.

Next day, we hit The George in Ashford-in-the-Water for Sunday roast—Derbyshire lamb so succulent it fell off the bone, Yorkshire puds the size of saucers, and veg roasted in duck fat. Pub grub doesn’t get better. Midweek, I foraged a bit (legally, mind—blackberries by the hedgerows) for a crumble, and nipped to Matlock for smoked salmon from their deli. Breakfasts became a ritual: eggs from the farm shop, fried with bacon rashers thick as your thumb.

Honestly, this holiday was a feast from start to finish—markets fuelling my cooking cock-ups, pubs providing the pro stuff. Derbyshire’s got food that sticks to your ribs and warms the soul. Can’t wait to go back and botch another masterpiece.