I’ll never forget the drive down to the Cotswolds Water Park – we’d set off from London full of beans, playlist blasting, only for the sat-nav to chuck us into some cheeky roadworks just past Swindon. Half an hour of queuing behind a tractor later, we rolled up laughing, windswept and starving. But oh, what a first impression! Pulling into the Cotswolds Water Park, that luxury lakeside lodge nestled right there among the shimmering lakes felt like stumbling into a postcard. The anticipation had been building all week – visions of lazy waterside suppers – and it didn’t disappoint.

We’d booked this posh log cabin-style spot for its prime location amid all the water action, but let’s be honest, the real star was the food scene. First night, we cracked open the well-stocked kitchen and I fancied myself a proper chef. Armed with local sausages from Cirencester market (just a quick 10-minute drive away), I attempted a full English breakfast-for-dinner fry-up. Sausages sizzling, eggs wobbling everywhere – it was a right mess, half-burnt bangers and all, but we scoffed it down on the deck with a view of the lake turning pink at sunset. Proper comedy gold, me there in my apron, pretending I’m Jamie Oliver.

Next morning, we hit Cirencester, the Cotswolds’ capital, buzzing with that market-town vibe. The weekly market was on, stalls groaning under fresh cheeses, artisan breads, and the most glorious plump strawberries you’ve ever seen. I loaded up on pork pies, local cheddar, and a jar of chutney that could make cardboard taste gourmet. Back at the lodge, lunch was a picnic of those pies and cheese on crusty rolls, washed down with cider from a nearby farm shop. Simple, but it hit the spot – sat by the water, watching families paddleboarding, feeling smug about our haul.

Evenings were pub time, and the Water Park’s facilities meant we were spoilt. There’s a cracking on-site café doing hearty ploughman’s and fish and chips, but we ventured to Cirencester’s pubs for the full monty. The Golden Cross did the best Sunday roast – melt-in-the-mouth beef, Yorkshire puds like clouds, and gravy so rich I nearly proposed to it. We stumbled back tipsy, vowing to recreate it. My second kitchen disaster: Yorkshire puddings that resembled deflated balloons. Laughing till we cried, we drowned sorrows in more cider and ordered pizza instead. Self-reflection moment: maybe I’m better at eating than cooking, but isn’t that half the fun of a holiday?

One highlight was a lakeside barbecue – we grilled fresh trout caught that afternoon (fishing’s a doddle here), with salads from market veg. Paired with a bottle of white from the lodge’s welcome hamper, it was bliss. Cirencester’s eateries shone too: a cosy bistro for cream teas (scones still warm, clotted cream divine) and a gastropub where the venison pie had us scraping the plate. No fancy trips afar – everything within a stone’s throw, keeping it relaxed.

This stay was a feast for the senses, all centred on those glorious meals and market treasures. Left us fatter, happier, and plotting the next one. Pure indulgence.