I’ll never forget the drive up to the Peak District – sat nav said it’d be a breeze from Manchester, but no, some cheeky roadworks had us crawling along like snails on a salt lick. We ended up taking a wrong turn down a narrow lane, bumping over potholes with me muttering about why I didn’t just pack a picnic and stay home. But as we crested that final hill and spotted Longnor nestled in the valley, all that faded. The anticipation bubbled up – a cosy getaway, just us two, with proper home-cooked grub on the horizon after weeks of takeaways.

Pulling up to the property, my first impressions were spot on. It’s this cracking modern apartment tucked inside an old water-powered saw mill, all stylish with handcrafted woodwork that gives it real character. The open-plan living space flooded with light from those handmade arched windows, bouncing off the wooden fitted kitchen – oven, microwave, induction hob, the lot. I could already picture us rustling up feasts there. The plush two-seater sofa screamed Netflix and chill, and that king-size bed? Pure bliss for recharging after a day out.

We dumped the bags and headed straight for the village shop in Longnor – tiny, but stocked with local gems like Staffordshire cheese, fresh eggs from nearby farms, and plump Derbyshire tomatoes. First night, I fancied myself a chef: seared some pork chops from the butcher’s counter (grabbed en route), with a creamy mash and seasonal veg. Turned out half decent, though I overdid the garlic – partner took one whiff and joked I’d scared off the sheep outside. We scoffed it on the sofa, telly humming in the background, feet up after a gentle stroll down to the brook.

Next morning, markets called. Buxton’s got that fab farmers’ market on Saturdays, just a quick hop away – stalls heaving with artisan breads, venison pies, and jars of chutney that’d make your nan weep. Loaded up on smoked trout, crusty loaves, and a slab of oatcake (proper Peak District fuel). Back at the apartment, lunch was a DIY ploughman’s: cheddar sharp enough to wake the dead, paired with pickle and ale from a local microbrewery we’d spied. My cooking attempt at afternoon tea? Scones with clotted cream and jam – lopsided, but slathered enough to hide the flaws. Laughed about it over cups of builder’s brew.

Evenings were pub heaven. The Watts Arms in Longnor is a belter – five minutes’ wander, roaring fire, and their Sunday roast? Melt-in-the-mouth beef, Yorkshire puds the size of saucers, gravy like nectar. We went twice, once for fish and chips that were crisp outside, fluffy within, with mushy peas on the side. Another night, tried the Griffin at Earl Sterndale, proper real ales and hearty pies. No fancy Michelin stuff, just honest, warming food that hits after fresh air.

Looking back, it was those simple meals that made it – my dodgy experiments in that brilliant kitchen, market hauls turning into feasts, pub noshes sealing the deal. Made me reflect: in the rush of life, we forget how a bit of home cooking and a good pie can recharge the soul better than any spa. Can’t wait to go back for more.