I’ll never forget the drive up to the Lake District – sat nav insisting we take some winding back road through the Dales, only for us to end up behind a sheep farmer’s lorry doing 20mph with a flock spilling out the back. Proper comedy of errors, me swearing under my breath while the kids in the back seat chanted “baa baa black sheep” on loop. But as we crested that final hill and spotted Bowness-on-Windermere twinkling below, all was forgiven. Heart lifted, I thought, this is it – proper holiday vibes incoming.

Pulling into the hidden glade off the edge of town felt like stumbling into a secret. This delightful cottage sits amongst beautiful woodlands on a high promontory, and as we unloaded, the delights unfolded: mature trees, fir, bracken, and a cheeky squirrel eyeing our bags like they were buffet starters. It’s bright and welcoming inside, with a sitting room full of stylish, contemporary furnishings and cracking views over the woods. Ideal for a family, we thought – pack the walking boots for the national park, then hot tub recovery. But honestly? The real star turned out to be the kitchen. We’d planned lazy days fuelling up on local grub, and it didn’t disappoint.

First morning, we wandered down to Bowness for supplies. The little market on the high street was buzzing – stalls groaning under fresh Lakeland cheeses, crusty loaves from the artisan bakery, and plump tomatoes that tasted like summer. Grabbed some herby sausages from the butcher and a slab of that famous sticky toffee pudding for pud. Back at the cottage, I fancied myself a proper chef, rustling up a full English with a twist: local bacon rashers sizzling alongside black pudding and those sausages. The kids demolished it, grease and all, while we gazed out at the trees. Bit of a smug moment, that – until I burned the toast. Proper charcoaled it. Laughing about it now, but it was a gentle nudge: stick to what you know, mate.

Evenings were pub crawl heaven, all within easy stroll or a quick scoot down the hill. The Angel Inn round the corner does a mean pie – steak and ale, proper flaky pastry, washed down with a pint of Hawkshead bitter that hits the spot after a damp tramp along the Windermere shores. One night, we tried The Hooked Sicillian for fish and chips, but truth be told, nothing beat the pub’s homemade fish pie the next evening, creamy and packed with haddock from Morecambe Bay. We’d lug leftovers back, heat ’em up in the cottage oven, then flop into the hot tub with a bottle of Cumbrian red, steam rising as the woods went quiet bar the odd owl hoot.

Midway through, over a slap-up breakfast of scrambled eggs on that market sourdough (my second attempt, marginally less disastrous), I had a proper reflective moment. Holidays like this, it’s not just the views – it’s the simple joy of cooking together, faffing about with local treats, and not rushing. The kids experimenting with fudge from the Bowness sweet shop, me sneaking extra cheese from the fridge. We even braved a full roast one rainy afternoon – chicken from the farm shop, Yorkshire puds risen just enough, gravy thick as you like. Burnt the edges again, mind, but who cares? It tasted of home, upgraded.

By the end, we’d mapped every eatery within a couple of miles: the Syke’side Café for bacon butties with a view, Mason’s Arms for their venison hotpot that warms your cockles. Left stuffed, happy, and plotting the next trip. If you’re after a base for feasting your way through the Lakes, this spot’s a belter.