I’ll never forget the drive down to Oxfordshire last month – me behind the wheel of our trusty old Volvo, sat-nav chirping away like it owned the road, and my partner insisting we stop for elevenses in Banbury. We’d just passed the M40 junction when disaster struck: a rogue flock of sheep decided to stage a sit-in right across the lane. Cue 20 minutes of honking, herding, and me spilling my thermos of tea all over the passenger seat. Laughing about it now, but at the time, I was proper fuming. Still, it added to the anticipation – we were buzzing to get to this gorgeous little holiday cottage we’d booked, tucked away in the Cherwell countryside near Banbury.

Pulling up after that chaotic journey, my first impressions were spot on. The place was a cosy converted stable, all rustic charm with a welcoming vibe that screamed ‘kick back and relax’. We dumped the bags and cracked open a bottle of fizz on the patio, toasting to no more sheep standoffs.

Right from the off, it was all about the food – proper home comforts mixed with local gems. First morning, I fancied playing chef with the well-stocked kitchen. Nipped to Banbury market, just a quick five-minute drive, where the stalls were heaving with fresh veg, artisan cheeses, and those fat, juicy sausages from the local butcher. Bargain-hunted for some plump tomatoes and crusty bread, then attempted a full English back at the cottage. Mine turned out a bit more ‘deconstructed’ than Gordon Ramsay’s – eggs sliding off plates like they had somewhere to be – but washed down with strong builder’s tea, it hit the spot. My other half took the mick mercilessly, calling it my ‘abstract art breakfast’. Fair play, though; we devoured it.

Evenings were pub central. The nearby Tooleys Boatyard, a stone’s throw away by car, became our haunt. Proper proper boozer with riverside views over the canal – we’d sink a couple of pints of local ale from the Hook Norton brewery, then plough into their pie of the day. Monday was steak and ale, Tuesday chicken and mushroom; each one flakier than the last, with mash that could’ve been someone’s nan’s recipe. One night, we got chatting to locals about the best spots for a Sunday roast, and they swore by The Reindeer just up the road. We tried it next day – massive Yorkshire puds, crackling that snapped like fireworks, and gravy so rich I nearly licked the plate. Gentle self-reflection moment here: I’ve always been a bit of a takeaway fiend back home in Manchester, but rustling up meals from market hauls and pub-hopping like this made me realise how much joy there is in simple, hearty grub. No faff, just good nosh and better company.

Midweek, we hit the Butchers Arms for fish and chips – proper haddock in beer batter, not that frozen rubbish – wrapped in paper and eaten by the canal with a cheeky GandT. Another market run scored us a punnet of strawberries from a nearby farm stall; I tried my hand at a crumble that evening. Burnt the edges a tad (note to self: oven mitts next time), but with clotted cream from the dairy stall, it was heavenly.

By the end of the week, we’d rolled home fatter, happier, and already plotting the next food-focused jaunt. Oxfordshire’s got it spot on for lazy, tasty holidays – who needs abroad when the pubs are this good?