I’ll never forget the drive up to Ambleside – we’d set off from the motorway full of beans, sandwiches packed, but about halfway through the Lakes, I took a wrong turn at Windermere and ended up in a queue of caravans crawling along like sleepy snails. By the time we arrived, it was late afternoon, and I was starving, but honestly, that first glimpse of the fells rolling down to the lake made my stomach grumble even louder. We pulled up to this lovely ground-floor apartment tucked away in a picturesque spot, all cosy and welcoming with its open-plan living area – perfect for us lot to flop into after the faff.

Anticipation had been building all week; I’d been daydreaming about proper Lake District grub, none of that rubbish back home. First impressions? Spot on. The shared lawned garden out back had tables and chairs begging for a cuppa, and you could practically smell the fresh air mixed with someone’s roast somewhere. We dumped the bags and cracked on with supper – I’d promised to cook, but my attempt at a Lakeland lamb stew from a recipe I’d scribbled down turned into a bit of a comedy. Too much rosemary, and it tasted like we were eating the hedge. Still, we laughed it off with a bottle of red, sprawled on the sofa, windows open to the evening breeze.

Next morning, we wandered into Ambleside’s little market – what a gem. Stalls heaving with local cheeses, venison pies, and jars of chutney that could make your nan weep. I grabbed some herby sausages and a loaf of crusty bread, plus a punnet of damsons that looked too good to pass up. Back at the flat, lunch was a proper feast: sausages grilled with a dollop of mustard from the market, cheese on toast for the kids, and me trying (and failing) to make a damson fool without the blender. It ended up more like lumpy jam, but slathered on bread with a brew, it hit the spot.

Evenings were for the pubs – there’s a cracking one just a short stroll away, all low ceilings and chatty locals. First night, we went for fish and chips, the batter so crisp it shattered like glass, with mushy peas that were pure comfort. Another evening, it was pie and ale – their steak and ale was legendary, rich gravy you could swim in, paired with a pint of something hoppy from a nearby brewery. I even snuck in a cheeky sticky toffee pudding, which was so good I had seconds and regretted it the next morning on our gentle lakeside amble.

One rainy afternoon, holed up in the apartment, I reflected on how I’m always the one faffing in the kitchen, thinking I’m Jamie Oliver but ending up with a right mess. This holiday made me realise it’s not about perfection – it’s the messing about together, the tastes that linger, like that market fudge we demolished on the lawn. We left stuffed to the gills, already plotting the next trip for more of the same. Proper bliss.