I’ve just got back from the most brilliant week in a cosy holiday cottage in Ambleside, and honestly, the food stole the show. Perched on the edge of Windermere, this little stone-built gem had a proper country kitchen that begged for culinary adventures – though mine were more comedy than MasterChef.

First morning, I pottered down to the weekly market in the centre. Ambleside’s market is a proper feast for the senses: stalls groaning under jars of local honey, wheels of creamy Lakeland cheese, and the freshest veg you’ll see outside a posh grocer’s. I loaded up on rashers of bacon from a butcher who swore his pigs were happier than me (debatable), some knobbly carrots, and a punnet of wild mushrooms that looked like they’d been foraged by Beatrix Potter herself. Back at the cottage, I attempted a full English brekkie. The Aga was a beast – I scorched the sausages blacker than my soul after one too many pints the night before – but slathered in local tomato chutney, it was salvageable. Lesson one in self-reflection: never underestimate an Aga’s fiery temperament.

Lunches were all about pub grub, and Ambleside’s got a cracking lineup. The Waterhead Inn round the corner served up the juiciest lamb shank I’ve ever had, slow-cooked till it fell off the bone, with a side of buttery mash and gravy so rich it could fund a second home. Washed down with a pint of Hawkshead Bitter – proper Lakeland brew, hoppy and golden – it was heaven. I got chatting with locals about their foraging spots, which inspired my next daft kitchen experiment: nettle soup. Foraged a handful from the cottage garden (after googling ‘is this poisonous?’), blended it with cream and stock from the market. Tasted surprisingly good, like earthy spinach with a kick. Gentle reflection there: turns out I’m not entirely hopeless in the kitchen when there’s no pressure.

Evenings? Pub crawls with a foodie twist. Fell Inn for sticky toffee pudding that was pure sin – sticky, spongy, drowned in toffee sauce and served with clotted cream thicker than my accent after a few bevvies. Then The Priest Hole, tucked away like a smuggler’s den, where I demolished a venison pie, flaky pastry encasing tender meat from the fells. Hilarious moment: I tried ‘cooking’ a shepherd’s pie in the cottage one night, using mince from the market and mash from spuds I’d boiled to oblivion. It emerged looking like a landslide, but with a dollop of Branston pickle, it hit the spot. Laughed at myself in the mirror – proper holiday slob, apron on back-to-front.

No trip’s complete without a bakery stop. The Watermill does sourdough loaves that could win awards, and I smeared one with local blue cheese for a midnight feast. Breakfasts evolved too – by day four, I’d nailed pancakes with Windermere char jam, flipping them without disaster. The whole week was a love letter to Lakeland eating: hearty, honest, and unpretentious. Left with a belly full of memories (and a stone heavier), vowing to recreate that nettle soup at home. Ambleside’s cottage life? It’s all about the scoff, mate. Can’t wait to go back.