I’ll never forget the drive up to Ambleside – we’d set off from the M6 full of beans, sandwiches packed, but about halfway through Kirkstone Pass, the heavens opened and our windscreen wipers gave up the ghost. Cue a frantic stop at a layby, me faffing with fuses while the rain hammered down like it had a personal grudge. Half an hour and a lot of swearing under my breath later (not that I’d admit to it), we were back on track, hearts racing but laughing about it. By the time we crested the hill into Ambleside, the clouds were parting, and there it was – our first-class apartment perched on a high hillside, just a stone’s throw from the centre. The views hit us like a tonic: Old Man of Coniston brooding in the distance, Wetherlam’s rugged flanks, Loughrigg’s gentle slopes, and that epic Fairfield Horseshoe stretching out like a promise of adventures. Private parking right on the level, and stepping through the main entrance into the sun room? Pure bliss. I could already picture kicking back there with a cuppa, watching the fells turn golden.

But let’s be honest, the real star of our stay was the food – or should I say, our valiant attempts at Lake District feasting. First morning, we wandered down to the centre, anticipation buzzing after that dodgy drive. Ambleside’s got this brilliant vibe, all bustling without being overwhelming, and we hit the local market on the square straight away. StallS groaning under piles of fresh Cumbrian cheeses, artisan breads, and the most enormous sausages you’ve ever seen – venison and pork, herby and plump. I grabbed a wedge of that sharp Kirkham’s Lancashire and some wild garlic butter, dreaming of posh toasties. Back at the apartment, with its cracking kitchen, we gave it a go: me slicing bread unevenly (as per usual), partner-in-crime grilling those sausages to perfection. Sat in the sun room with the views, it felt like Michelin-star stuff, even if the toastie was a bit wonky.

Evenings were pub heaven. The Golden Rule, just a short stroll away, became our local – proper alehouse with low ceilings and a fire roaring. First night, we demolished plates of proper Lakeland lamb hotpot, rich and hearty, washed down with a pint of Coniston Bluebird. I tried to be sophisticated, ordering a half of their seasonal tipple, but ended up giggling over how it went straight to my head after that market cheese overload. Next evening, we ambled to The Waterhead Inn, right on the lake edge, for fish and chips that were crispy outside, flaky within, with mushy peas that tasted like they’d been grown that morning. Hilarious moment: I dripped vinegar down my chin mid-bite, earning a round of gentle ribbing from the bar staff. “Holiday face, love?” they quipped. Spot on.

One afternoon, feeling bold, we attempted a full-on roast in the apartment – leg of local mutton from the market, Yorkshire puds that puffed up like dreams (mine didn’t, mind; more like sad pancakes). Sitting there with the triple-aspect windows framing Wetherlam, it was a right treat. Made me reflect a bit, actually – rushing about life back home, we rarely cook properly anymore. Here, with those views and simple joys like a decent pud, it felt like we’d hit pause on the madness. We even snuck in a cheeky cream tea from a tearoom near Stock Ghyll Force, scones still warm, clotted cream piled high.

Honestly, that hillside perch made every meal magical – sun room chats over brews, gazing at the Horseshoe as the light faded. If you’re after a foodie escape in Ambleside, this is it: markets for treasures, pubs for heartiness, and your own kitchen for triumphant (or comically failed) experiments. We left fatter, happier, and already plotting a return.