I’ve just got back from the most brilliant week holed up in a cosy holiday cottage in the Dales of County Durham, and honestly, the food stole the show. Picture this: a stone-built beauty near Barnard Castle, with a cracking kitchen that had me fancying myself as the next Jamie Oliver. Spoiler: I’m not.

First morning, I pottered down to the Barnard Castle market – it’s one of those proper farmers’ markets that pop up on Saturdays, stalls groaning under local cheeses, pies, and veg so fresh it practically waved at me. I loaded up on Weardale Blue cheese (tangy as you like) and a hunk of that dark, malty Durham rye bread. Back at the cottage, I attempted a ploughman’s lunch: cheese, bread, some Branston pickle I rustled up from the pantry, and a few pickled onions that nearly did me in. It was messy, but mate, it hit the spot with a pot of builder’s tea. Self-reflection moment one: I’m rubbish at portion control. That cheese board could’ve fed a rugby team.

Evenings were pub central. The place is dotted with cracking locals, and my favourite was The Teesdale in Bowes, just a short drive away. Proper Yorkshire puddings the size of hubcaps, slathered in gravy, with a roast beef that melted. I went full glutton – starter of black pudding bonbons (crispy outside, oozy inside), then the roast, washed down with a pint of Black Sheep ale. The barman, a proper character called Dave, reckoned I was “building a proper engine on me plate.” Laughed so hard I nearly choked on a Yorkshire pud. Next night, I tried The Grey Bull in Durham city – their fish and chips are legendary, batter like a dream, mushy peas that transport you straight to Blackpool. Sat by the fire, batter crunching away, reflecting on how these no-nonsense grub spots make you feel right at home.

Cooking in the cottage was my comedy highlight. Armed with market hauls – venison sausages from a Teesdale butcher, earthy mushrooms, and kale from some allotment hero – I fired up the Aga for a casserole. Followed a recipe off my phone, but doubled the wine (red, naturally) because why not? It bubbled away like a witch’s brew, and the result? Tender meat, rich sauce, served with jacket spuds baked in the oven. Burnt the first batch of spuds, mind – classic me, too busy supping local gin from the Weardale Distillery (smooth as silk, juniper kick). We scoffed it on the cottage patio, stars out, feeling all smug. Gentle self-reflection two: holidays like this remind me that faffing in a kitchen beats any posh restaurant. It’s the smells, the triumphs, the charred disasters.

Day trips meant more eats: a bacon butty from a greasy spoon in Middleton-in-Teesdale (crisp rashers, soft bap, brown sauce perfection), and a cream tea detour at Raby Castle tearooms – scones still warm, clotted cream mountains. Pub curry night at The Stag in Langdon Beck rounded it off: lamb rogan josh that punched above its weight.

County Durham’s food scene is unpretentious gold – markets bursting, pubs heaving with heartiness, cottages begging for your daft culinary experiments. I rolled home a stone heavier, but grinning ear to ear. Next time, I’m packing an apron.