I’ll never forget the drive down to Sussex last month – chuckling to myself now, but it started with a classic me moment. I’d packed the car the night before, only to realise halfway through packing my lunch that I’d left the boot wide open at home. Cue a frantic U-turn on the M25, heart racing as I imagined my cool bag spilling sandwiches all over the driveway. Still, once I’d sorted that, the journey smoothed out, winding through those lush green lanes towards Chichester. The anticipation built as the satnav chimed “arriving now” – I was picturing a cosy hideaway perfect for unwinding with good food and even better company (just me and a stack of recipe books this time).

Pulling up, my first impressions were spot on: this cute detached chalet-style cottage sat snugly in a peaceful spot, all welcoming with its private patio begging for al fresco dinners. I dumped my bags and headed straight for the kitchen – the heart of the holiday, if you ask me. Stocked with basics, it was ideal for faffing about with local treats. First stop that afternoon? Chichester’s market on Monday, just a short hop away. I loaded up on fresh veg from the stalls – plump tomatoes, earthy beetroot, and crusty loaves that smelled like heaven. Grabbed some Sussex cheese too, the kind that crumbles just right on a cracker.

Evening one, I attempted a proper roast – chicken from the butcher’s stall, slathered in herbs. Disaster? Nearly. The oven was a bit temperamental, and my timings were all over the shop, leaving the spuds a tad cremated. Laughed it off with a glass of local wine from the market, salvaging it with gravy that could’ve won awards. Self-reflection hit then: I’m no MasterChef, but there’s something therapeutic about pottering in a holiday kitchen, isn’t there? No rush, no washing up for a dozen, just you and the joy of eating what you’ve muddled together.

Next day, we’re talking pubs – the real stars of Sussex stays. The Fat Ox in West Chichester was a gem, a proper local with beams I ducked under (carefully) and a menu of slow-cooked lamb that melted in your mouth. I went for the pie, flaky pastry hiding chunks of beef in a rich ale gravy, paired with chips that were crisp outside, fluffy in. Washed down with a pint of Harvey’s, that classic Sussex brew – smooth, malty, gone too quick. Back at the cottage, I whipped up brekkie the next morning using market eggs: scrambled with chives, on thick toast. Simple, but blooming delicious.

Midweek, I hit The Royal Oak nearby for fish and chips – haddock so fresh it flaked at a nudge, mushy peas on the side. Took it back to the patio, sea breeze optional (it’s inland, but you get the vibe). Another market run yielded strawberries the size of golf balls; I tried a crumble that evening, oven cooperating this time. Golden, gooey – nailed it. One night, I even baked soda bread, inspired by a pub chat about local baking. Turned out lumpy but lovely with butter and that cheese.

Honestly, this holiday was all about the eating – markets fuelling my kitchen experiments, pubs providing the pro-level comfort food. Left feeling stuffed, satisfied, and plotting the next trip. If you’re after a foodie escape in Sussex, you can’t go wrong with a spot like this.