I’ll never forget the drive up to the Lake District – a proper British road trip, innit? We set off from Manchester early doors, full of beans with a playlist of old Oasis tunes blaring, but about halfway in, disaster struck. I’d packed the cool bag with our picnic lunch, only to realise at a services that the flipping thing had sprung a leak. Cheese sandwiches swimming in a cheesy brine – we laughed it off with a greasy service station pasty, but it set the tone for some culinary chaos ahead.

Pulling into the holiday park just outside Pooley Bridge, my heart did a little flip. Nestled in that idyllic spot with Ullswater Valley practically on the doorstep, it felt like we’d stumbled into a postcard. The one-bed apartment was cosy as anything, all welcoming and perfectly placed for couples like us who fancied a bit of walking and watersports without the faff. First impressions? Spot on – the onsite shop was a godsend for grabbing basics, and that bar tempted us with a cheeky pint later.

But let’s be honest, the real star of our stay was the food. Pooley Bridge, just a short stroll away along the River Eamont, is pub heaven. We hit the first one straight off – The Sun Inn, I think it was – where the Sunday roast was a beast: melt-in-your-mouth Cumbrian beef, Yorkshire puds the size of hubcaps, and gravy so good it deserved its own fan club. Washed down with a local ale that hit just right after the drive. We became regulars, popping in for fish and chips one night (crisp batter, peas mushy as they should be) and a proper pie the next, all sticky toffee pud for afters. The portions were generous, the banter from the locals even better – “You southerners holding up with our hills?” they’d tease.

Cooking in the apartment turned into our hilarious side quest. The onsite shop stocked cracking fresh produce – crusty bread, local cheeses, and those fat Cumbrian sausages that smell like heaven sizzling in the pan. My attempt at a full English one morning? Epic fail. I overdid the black pudding, turning it into a hockey puck, and the eggs slid off the plate like they’d seen a ghost. We salvaged it with a laugh and a dash to the shop for more bacon. Evenings, we’d cobble together pasta with whatever veg we’d nabbed, pretending we were MasterChef contestants. One night, I tried herby lamb chops from the butcher in the village – charred them perfectly on the griddle, served with new potatoes and a jug of mint sauce. Felt dead proud, until I realised I’d forgotten the wine. Rookie error.

A gentle wander into Pooley Bridge led us to the little market stall by Ullswater – jars of chutney, homemade scones, and flapjacks that stuck to your teeth in the best way. We stocked up, dreaming of cream teas that never quite materialised because the pubs kept calling. Reflecting on it now, sat back home with a cuppa, I reckon that’s the magic: simple grub shared with laughs, no pretensions. Our Lake District escape wasn’t about fancy dining; it was those hearty meals, daft kitchen disasters, and the glow of a full belly after a Ullswater boat jaunt. Can’t wait to go back for more.