I’ll never forget the drive up to Rosthwaite – we’d packed the car with enough cheese and crackers to feed a small army, only for the sat-nav to chuck us into a cheeky detour through some narrow lanes that had me white-knuckling the wheel. A rogue sheep decided to photobomb our progress by blocking the road entirely, forcing a five-minute standoff where it just stared us down like it owned the Borrowdale Valley. Still, by the time we rolled into the village at the end of that stunning valley, sandwiched between the River Derwent and Stonethwaite Beck, all was forgiven. The mountains loomed welcomingly, and pulling up to this delightful apartment felt like arriving at a cosy hug from the Lake District itself. First impressions? Magic – peaceful, perfectly placed for a wander along the Cumbria Way right outside, and dead handy for Keswick just six miles up the road.

We’d barely unpacked when hunger hit, and honestly, food became the star of our stay. The apartment’s kitchen was a godsend – well-equipped with everything needed for a proper faff about cooking. Day one, I fancied myself a chef and attempted a Borrowdale lamb stew using a shoulder from the butcher in Keswick (a quick bus ride away, and worth it for their cracking local meats). It started promisingly with onions sizzling in butter, chucked in some carrots and potatoes from the village shop, but I overseasoned the rosemary – turned out a bit like eating a herb garden. We laughed it off with a bottle of red and vowed to do better.

Next morning, we hit the local bakery in Rosthwaite for fresh scones and clotted cream – proper job, still warm and crumbly. Paired with a flask of tea, it was the perfect fuel for a gentle stroll along the beck, dreaming of more eats ahead. Lunch was at the village pub, a no-frills spot with the best fish and chips I’ve had in ages – crispy batter, fat chips, and mushy peas that tasted like they’d been grown in the garden next door. The landlord recommended their sticky toffee pudding, and blimey, it was a sticky situation getting out of there without seconds.

Evenings were for experimenting back at the flat. We nabbed smoked trout from the Keswick market – that vibrant little Saturday affair with stalls groaning under local cheeses, venison sausages, and jars of Borrowdale chutney. Grilled up with new potatoes and a herby salad, it was spot on. One night, I tried my hand at a Cumberland sausage hotpot, inspired by the butcher’s chat about farm-fresh pork. It bubbled away nicely, though I’ll admit the pastry lid was more like a wonky frisbee. Sat by the window watching the mountains fade into dusk, forks in hand, it felt dead luxurious.

Reflecting on it now, amid the feasting, there was a quiet moment supping a pint at the pub, watching families pile in after a day’s walking. Made me think how these simple meals, half-cooked disasters and all, knit a holiday together better than any fancy itinerary. Keswick’s got brilliant pubs too – we squeezed in a curry night at one, lamb rogan josh that warmed us right through. Back at the apartment, nursing leftovers, I realised you don’t need pampering spas when you’ve got a full belly and Borrowdale views. What a cracking few days – already plotting the next food-focused escape.