I’ll never forget the drive down to Cirencester – we’d packed the car with enough cheese and crackers to fend off a siege, but halfway there, just past Swindon, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us looping round some back lane that looked like it hadn’t seen tarmac since the war. Typical me, I thought I knew better and ignored it, only to end up nose-to-nose with a tractor. We laughed it off, though, and arrived with the sun dipping low, buzzing with that proper holiday anticipation – you know, the kind where you’re already imagining your first pint.

Pulling up to our beautifully finished apartment in the heart of this charming market town, I was chuffed to bits. It was compact but spot-on, with everything you need right on your doorstep – no faffing about with cars once we’d unpacked. First impressions? Pure bliss. The high street was just a stroll away, humming with that Cotswolds cosiness.

We wasted no time diving into the food scene, which is Cirencester’s real magic. That first evening, we wandered over to the market square – it’s buzzing on Tuesdays and Fridays, but even midweek there’s enough local produce to make your mouth water. I grabbed a punnet of the ripest strawberries and some artisan bread from a stall run by a cheery bloke who swore they were picked that morning. Back at the flat, I fancied myself a chef and tried knocking up a simple ploughman’s: hunks of cheddar from a nearby dairy (proper tangy stuff), that bread slathered in butter, and Branston pickle on the side. It was a right mess – I sliced my thumb peeling an apple for the pud – but washing it down with a cuppa on the balcony felt like winning the lottery.

Next day, we hit the pubs, starting with The Fleece just off the square. It’s one of those timeless spots with a roaring fire and locals who nod like you’re mates already. We went for the Sunday roast (worth stretching the weekend for), with Yorkshire puds the size of hubcaps, melt-in-your-mouth beef, and veg straight from Cotswold fields. I overdid it on the gravy, naturally, but who cares on holiday? Pub grub here isn’t fancy; it’s hearty, honest, and hits the spot every time.

Markets became our daily pilgrimage. On Friday, the proper one was in full swing – stalls groaning under fresh pies, pasties stuffed with local lamb, and jars of chutney that’d make your nan jealous. I loaded up on smoked trout from a fishmonger and some wild garlic pesto, dreaming of a gourmet breakfast. Back home, my cooking attempt number two was a fry-up with those ingredients: trout on toast with a poached egg. Turned out half decent, though the smoke alarm had a minor fit. Laughing about it later over cider at The Crown, I had one of those gentle moments – you know, realising I’m no MasterChef, but there’s joy in the faff, especially with good company and cracking local nosh.

Evenings blurred into more pub crawls: The Golden Fleece for fish and chips that were crispier than my attempts at batter, and a cheeky stop at Jesse’s for wood-fired pizzas with toppings like venison and blackberries – pure Cotswolds fusion. We’d stagger back sated, bellies full, plotting the next meal. Honestly, staying slap bang in Cirencester meant the best of the eats were seconds away, no car needed. It was the kind of holiday where food isn’t just fuel; it’s the whole story. Can’t wait to go back for more.