I’ll never forget the drive down to Lymington on that Changeover Friday – the SatNav decided to have a midlife crisis just past Southampton, sending us on a merry dance through some back lanes that felt more like a rally stage than the A337. We ended up with a grazed wing mirror after a cheeky brush with a hedge, but honestly, it just added to the adventure. By the time we pulled up to our charming little apartment in the heart of it all, the sun was dipping low, casting that golden glow over the rooftops, and I was buzzing with anticipation. What a first impression – cosy, spotless, and right where the action is, with the high street just a stroll away.

First things first, we dumped the bags and dashed out for a proper welcome supper at The Kings Head, one of those cracking old pubs tucked off the main drag. Fish and chips done right – flaky cod in a batter that crunched like it should, mushy peas on the side, and a pint of local Ringwood ale to wash it down. Sat outside under the fairy lights, watching locals amble by, it felt like we’d slipped into someone else’s perfect evening. I’m not one for overthinking, but there I was, reflecting on how often I skip these simple joys back home, glued to the telly instead.

Next morning, we hit the Saturday market on the high street – what a gem. Stalls groaning under fresh New Forest strawberries, artisan cheeses that could make you weep, and those fat, juicy sausages from the butcher who swore they were the best in Hampshire. I grabbed a haul: plump tomatoes, crusty sourdough, and some smoked mackerel that smelled like heaven. Back at the apartment, with its neat little kitchen, I fancied myself a chef. Attempt one: a full English fry-up. Sausages sizzling, eggs fried just shy of perfection (one yolk burst, typical me), bacon crispy as it should be. We ate on the tiny balcony, laughing at my wobbly efforts, but it tasted like triumph.

Lunches were all about grazing local. A cheese ploughman’s from Stanwell House pub – mature cheddar, pickle sharp enough to wake you up, and thick-cut ham that melted in the mouth. Evenings? We rotated spots like pros. The Hare and Hounds for a Sunday roast that punched way above its weight – tender beef, Yorkshire puds puffed to glory, and gravy you could swim in. One night, I tried poshing it up with market scallops pan-fried in butter (overdid the garlic, mind – lesson learned), served with crusty bread and a cheeky bottle of white from the offy. Paired it with stories from the day, feeling properly content.

By midweek, we’d nailed a routine: market top-up, pub lunch at The Cricketers (their crab sandwiches are legendary, fresh from the Solent), then back for my “gourmet” experiments. Spaghetti with those ripe tomatoes, basil from a pot I wished I’d bought sooner, and a grating of parmesan that wasn’t half bad. Sure, I burned the garlic bread once – gentle reminder that I’m no MasterChef – but it sparked the best giggles.

Leaving felt bittersweet; that last breakfast of local bacon butties on the balcony, harbour views twinkling, had us plotting a return. New Forest holidays like this? They’re all about the food, the pubs, and those market finds that turn a stay into a feast. Proper nourishing for the soul.