Just got back from the most brilliant week in a cosy holiday cottage in the Peak District, and blimey, the food stole the show. Tucked away in a stone-built gem near Bakewell, with a cracking kitchen that had me fancying myself as the next Jamie Oliver – though that delusion lasted about five minutes.

First morning, I pottered into Bakewell for the Tuesday market. It's a proper Derbyshire institution, stalls groaning under piles of local cheeses, handmade pork pies, and the fluffiest Derbyshire oatcakes you've ever seen. I loaded up on crumbly Stilton from a chap who swore it was aged in a cave (probably not, but who cares?), some venison sausages, and a punnet of raspberries that tasted like summer in a bowl. Back at the cottage, I attempted a full English breakfast with a twist: fried oatcakes slathered in local butter, black pudding from the butcher's, and eggs from a nearby farm. It was a greasy triumph, though I did burn the bacon slightly – self-reflection moment one: I'm better at eating than multitasking on the hob.

Pub lunches became our daily pilgrimage. The George in Ashbourne was a highlight – a proper free house with beams low enough to give you a gentle conk on the head if you're not careful. I demolished a pint of Marston's Pedigree (smooth as silk) alongside a steak and ale pie that was pastry perfection, the gravy so rich it could've been bottled. Humour kicked in when my mate tried the "Derbyshire delicacy" of haslet, that herby pork loaf; he pulled a face like he'd bitten into a rubber boot. "It's an acquired taste," the barman chuckled, pouring another round. Evenings, we'd wander to the local in Youlgrave, the Bulls Head, for fish and chips wrapped in yesterday's news (okay, eco-friendly paper these days), washed down with Thornbridge Jaipur IPA – Derbyshire brewing at its hoppy best.

Cooking disasters provided the laughs. One night, inspired by a market haul of lamb from the Chatsworth estate butchers, I tried a slow-cooked shoulder with rosemary from the cottage garden. Forgot to check the oven timer, though, and it came out tougher than an ex's resolve. We salvaged it with masses of mash and a bottle of local Sparken Hill red, turning defeat into a carb-laden feast. Gentle reflection there: holidays remind you that perfection's overrated; a shared plate of slightly charred lamb beats a solo microwave meal any day.

Markets weren't just for provisions – Hathersage's Friday one had me snaffling bacon baps hotter than the sun, stuffed with crispy rashers from free-range pigs. And don't get me started on the Bakewell pudding shops; I "tested" three versions, declaring the original from the Old Original the winner – warm, buttery, with that jammy almond custard that sticks to your ribs.

By week's end, I'd piled on a few pounds, but who cares? That cottage kitchen saw more action than my London flat does in a month, and those pub grub sessions were pure bliss. Derbyshire's not just peaks and dales – it's a foodie's paradise. Can't wait to go back and redeem my cooking cred.