I’ll never forget the drive down to Walberton – we’d packed the car to the gills with enough foodie kit to start our own pop-up restaurant, only for the sat-nav to chuck us into a muddy farm track detour just outside Chichester. Sod’s law, right? There I was, elbow-deep in a bag of spuds, trying to fish out the phone while my mate Dave muttered about his fancy new trainers sinking into the sludge. Twenty minutes later, we emerged, laughing it off, and pulled up to this cracking stylish lodge tucked on the owners’ farm in the sleepy village. From the off, it felt like home – cosy, with that perfect farm-fresh vibe, and a kitchen begging for some holiday mischief.

The anticipation built as we unpacked: fresh herbs from the garden plot outside, a crate of local ales, and plans for feasts that’d make Nigella jealous. First impressions? Spot on. The lodge is a gem for mates or family, with space to sprawl and a wood-burner for evenings in. But let’s be honest, the real star was the food scene – West Sussex does it like nowhere else, and staying here meant we could dive right in.

Day one, we strolled the footpaths through fields and hedgerows, stomachs rumbling, straight to a nearby farm shop. Proper jackpot: wonky carrots, artisan cheeses that could make you weep, and plump Sussex sausages. Back at the lodge, my cooking attempt was a heroic fail – I reckoned I’d nail a roast chicken with those herbs, but it came out more like a slightly charred football. Dave heroically turned it into a curry with some emergency spices, and washed down with Fontwell-brewed beer from 2.5 miles up the road, it was bliss. We chuckled over it, me reflecting on how I’m forever the ambitious amateur in the kitchen – all enthusiasm, zero finesse.

Next morning, a quick hop to the coast – five miles of sea breeze later, we were on the beach promenade, ice creams dripping faster than the seagulls could swoop. Grabbed fish and chips from a no-frills hut; crispy batter, proper mushy peas, the works. Heaven. Evenings meant pub crawls – Walberton’s locals dish up hearty grub like lamb shanks and sticky toffee pud that sticks to your ribs (and soul). One night at a village inn, we demolished platters of smoked mackerel from the fleet nearby, paired with crisp white from a Sussex vineyard we’d spotted on a whim.

Markets were our weakness. Arundel’s just four miles off, and their weekend one is a foodie’s dream: stalls heaving with venison pies, homemade fudge, and fresh bread that smells like temptation itself. I tried my hand at a picnic – Suffolk ham, local chutneys, crusty rolls – and this time, it worked a treat for a South Downs wander. Chichester’s markets, seven miles away, tempted with oyster stalls and posh charcuterie; we stocked up for a lodge cheeseboard that went down a storm.

Looking back, it was those meals that made it – shared plates, daft kitchen disasters, and the joy of eating with the landscape on your doorstep. If you’re after a base to eat your way through Sussex, this lodge delivers. We left fuller, happier, and plotting a return.