I’ll never forget the drive down to the Forest of Dean last month – we’d packed the car with enough snacks to feed a small army, but halfway there, just past Gloucester, the sat-nav decided to have a midlife crisis and sent us looping round some back lane that felt like it hadn’t seen tarmac since the war. We ended up stopping at a roadside café for emergency bacon butties, laughing about how we’d turned a two-hour journey into three. Still, as we finally crested the hill into Whitecroft, the forest unfolding like a green blanket and that tantalising whiff of woodsmoke in the air, all was forgiven. Spotting the cottage nestled right next to the owners’ place on the edge of the Royal Forest had me grinning ear to ear – it looked every bit the cosy haven we’d been dreaming of.

First impressions? Blimey, it exceeded them. We tumbled in, bags everywhere, and straight away I was in love with the sitting room – that woodburning stove begging to be lit, doors flung open to the rear patio with its bubbling hot tub, and a kitchen so brilliantly kitted out it made me feel like a proper chef. Upstairs, the bedroom’s forest views were pure magic, but honestly, it was the whole setup that screamed ‘relax and stuff your face’. With Whitecroft’s two cracking village pubs just a stroll away and all those forest walks to work off the calories, we knew food was going to be the star of this show.

We wasted no time. That first evening, after firing up the stove and cracking open a bottle of red, I attempted a proper roast – chicken from the local butcher we’d spotted on the way in, spuds parboiled just so, and veg from a farm stall in the village. It wasn’t Gordon Ramsay, mind – the gravy was a bit lumpy thanks to my overzealous flour chuck – but sat out on the patio as the sun dipped, it tasted like heaven. Gentle self-reflection moment: I’m usually a takeaways bloke, but there’s something about a well-equipped kitchen like this that makes you want to give it a go. Who knew I had it in me?

Next day, we wandered into Whitecroft for a mooch. The village has this brilliant little market vibe on Saturdays – fresh bread, local cheeses, and pies that could make you weep. We grabbed sausages, apples, and a chunk of mature cheddar, then headed back for a lazy brunch. Fried eggs on thick toast, the works. Afternoons were for pub crawls – the first one down the lane does a mean ploughman’s with doorstep ham and pickled onions, washed down with a pint of Forest ale that’s brewed just up the road. The other pub’s fish pie was legendary, all creamy mash and proper portions. We even tried cooking forest-foraged mushrooms one night (safely identified via an app, no poisonings here), sautéed with garlic from the market and chucked over pasta. Messy, but delicious.

Evenings blurred into hot tub sessions with cheese boards and wine, the forest alive with birdsong. One rainy afternoon, we hunkered down with a slow-cooked stew – beef from the butcher, root veg, and herbs I swore I’d grown myself (they were from a pot on the windowsill). It was all about that rhythm: market haul in the morning, pub lunch, home-cooked feast at night. By the end of the week, I’d put on half a stone and zero regrets. If you’re after a holiday where the eats drive the unwind, this corner of the Dean, with its pubs and produce, is pure gold. We’re already plotting a return – next time, I’m mastering that gravy.