I’ll never forget the drive to Moreton-in-Marsh – we took a wrong turn somewhere near Cheltenham, ending up on a narrow lane that had us convinced we’d stumbled into a herd of sheep’s private disco. Honking gently (no road rage here), we eventually extricated ourselves, laughing all the way, with the satnav chirping away like a cheeky parrot. By the time we rolled into this charming Gloucestershire market town on the edge of the Cotswolds, the sun was dipping low, and my stomach was rumbling louder than the engine.

Pulling up to our attractive little cottage – a proper characterful retreat sleeping us four comfortably in three bedrooms – I felt that proper holiday buzz. Tucked on the fringes of town, it was dead handy for shops and the station, but we were mostly here to feast our way through the Cotswolds. First impressions? Spot on. The place screamed cosy indulgence, and after dumping the bags, we cracked open a bottle of local cider from the offy down the road and planned our eating assault.

Day one kicked off with a wander to the high street’s eateries. Moreton’s got this brilliant little market on Tuesdays and Fridays – we hit the Friday one, piling our bags with fresh artisan cheeses, plump sausages from the butcher’s stall, and jars of chutney that promised to elevate any ploughman’s. Back at the cottage, I fancied myself a MasterChef, rustling up a lunch of those sausages grilled with local mustard and thick slices of bread from the bakery. It was a triumph, mostly – though I did slightly char the edges, which my mate Dave declared “rustic charcuterie.” We chuckled over that one, wine in hand, reflecting on how I’m always better at eating than cooking.

Evenings were pub paradise. The Black Bear just down the lane served up the juiciest Sunday roast I’ve had in ages – golden Yorkshire puds the size of hubcaps, piled with crackling pork and lashings of gravy. We became regulars at the White Hart too, where the fish and chips came with mushy peas that transported me straight back to childhood chippy runs. One night, after a scenic walk through the surrounding countryside (more of a gentle amble after all that food), we tried our hand at a cottage supper: a stew with veg from the market and venison from a nearby farm shop. It bubbled away nicely on the Aga-style cooker, filling the place with heavenly smells. Dave’s girlfriend, Sarah, added dumplings that were fluffy perfection, while I stuck to stirring and tasting – wisely.

Venturing just a couple of miles to Batsford’s arboretum café for elevenses was a highlight: their cream teas are legendary, scones still warm from the oven, clotted cream so thick you could stand a spoon in it. Closer to home, Stow-on-the-Wold, four miles off, nailed afternoon tea at its tearooms – delicate cakes and pots of Earl Grey that had us lingering far too long. No grand adventures needed; this holiday was all about savouring the local grub, from pie-and-mash at the pubs to my slightly wonky but heartfelt breakfast pancakes made with eggs from the market.

Looking back, amid all the munching, I had a quiet moment on the cottage sofa, plate balanced on my knee, thinking how these simple food-focused days recharge you more than any Instagram hike. We left fuller in every sense, already plotting a return for more Cotswold feasts. Proper holiday magic.