I’ll never forget the drive up to Ashbourne last month – we’d planned this cheeky weekend getaway to the Peak District, but of course, I took a wrong turn just outside Matlock and ended up faffing about on some narrow lanes for half an hour. The sat nav was having a right laugh at my expense, chirping away as if it was my fault. Still, by the time we rolled into the market square, the anticipation was buzzing – Ashbourne looked proper inviting with its bunting fluttering and that lively hum of a proper market town.

Pulling up to the landmark building right in the heart of it all, we were chuffed to bits with our first-floor one-bedroom apartment. It’s one of those luxurious spots designed for couples, with spacious rooms kitted out in top-notch style, overlooking the bustling square. Stepping inside felt like a warm hug – plush seating, a smart TV for lazy evenings, and everything so welcoming you could kick off your shoes and not feel a jot of guilt.

First things first, we dashed down to the market square, which was in full swing that Saturday. Ashbourne’s market is a gem, stalls groaning under fresh Derbyshire cheeses, plump pork pies, and veg so vibrant it practically waved at you. I grabbed a wedge of local Stilton and some crusty bread, dreaming of a posh picnic, but we ended up scoffing half of it on a bench, crumbs everywhere. Proper greedy, us.

That evening, we wandered to The Green Man, just a stone’s throw away – a cracking old pub with low ceilings and a fire roaring. Pints of bitter in hand, we tucked into their steak and ale pie, flaky pastry and tender meat that melted in your mouth. My other half raved about the mushy peas, but I was too busy mopping up gravy with my chips to care. We staggered back to the flat, bellies full, collapsing on the sofa with Netflix flickering away.

Next morning, I fancied playing masterchef in our swish kitchen. Armed with market finds – rashers of bacon from a local butcher stall, eggs from a nearby farm, and those tomatoes that actually taste of summer – I attempted a full English. It wasn’t Gordon Ramsay level (the eggs stuck a bit, and I overdid the black pudding), but slathered in HP sauce, it hit the spot. We ate by the window, watching the square wake up, sipping builder’s tea and feeling smug.

Lunch was at The White Lion, another cosy boozer round the corner. Their ploughman’s was legendary – chunks of cheddar, pickle sharp enough to wake the dead, and bread baked fresh that morning. I couldn’t resist the sticky toffee pudding after, all gooey and indulgent. Reflecting on it now, sat there with the rain pattering outside, I realised these simple meals were the real magic. No fancy holidays needed; just good grub, a decent pint, and someone to share the mess with. We even tried cooking a shepherd’s pie that night using leftover lamb from the market – bit lumpy, but homemade triumphs over takeaways any day.

By Sunday, we’d hit The Devonshire Arms for a roast – crackling that crunched like it should, Yorkshire puds the size of saucers, and gravy you could swim in. Stuffed to bursting, we waddled back, vowing to walk it off tomorrow. But honestly, who needs hikes when the eating’s this good? Ashbourne’s food scene had us hooked – markets for treasures, pubs for heartiness, and our little flat for those satisfying, if slightly wonky, home efforts. Can’t wait to go back and stuff my face all over again.