I’ll never forget the drive down to Queen Camel – sat nav had me convinced I was heading the right way, but I took a wrong turn near Yeovil and ended up in some narrow lane with hedges taller than the car. Classic me, turning a two-hour journey into a comedy of errors, but we laughed it off with the windows down and some cracking tunes on. By the time we pulled up, the sun was dipping low, and there it was: this cosy bolthole for two, tucked into the heart of the village, looking every bit the perfect hideaway with its welcoming glow. First impressions? Spot on – we were buzzing already.

Settling in felt like slipping into an old favourite jumper. The apartment’s setup was ideal for us, with a neat little kitchen that screamed “get cooking”. First night, I fancied playing chef – raided the village shop-cum-post-office for local sausages, eggs, and a bit of cheddar that was properly tangy. Scrambled them up with some toast, but let’s be honest, I nearly set off the smoke alarm juggling the pan. Still, scoffing it at the table with a cuppa, overlooking the quiet green, it tasted like heaven. Gentle reminder to myself: less faffing, more focus next time.

Next morning, we wandered to the pub – what a gem. Proper village local, all warm chatter and real ales on tap. I went for the ploughman’s: thick-cut ham, that same sharp cheddar, pickle on the side, and a pint of bitter that slid down a treat. My other half had the fish pie, creamy and packed with proper chunks of haddock. We chatted with locals about the best walks for our dog, who was in seventh heaven sniffing round the village hall field. Afternoon snack? The café down the lane did the most moreish cream tea – scones still warm, clotted cream thicker than my accent, and jam that was pure strawberry sunshine. Couldn’t resist a second pot of tea.

Evenings became a ritual of grazing and exploring. One night, we hit the American diner – yes, really, in Queen Camel! Burgers were juicy, fries crispy, and the milkshakes so thick you needed a spoon. Hilarious contrast to the Indian restaurant the next evening, where the chicken tikka masala was mild but flavoursome, with fluffy naan that mopped up the curry sauce perfectly. I tried recreating it back at the flat – garlic, ginger, a splash of cream – but mine was a watery shadow. Laughing over our “gourmet fail” with a bottle of local cider, it was one of those moments that sticks.

Markets were the highlight, though. Popped over to the one in the village hall field – stalls groaning with fresh veg, artisan breads, and homemade chutneys. Snagged some pork pies and rhubarb for a crumble attempt (nailed it this time, golden and gooey). The pub quiz night doubled as supper, with pie and mash specials that had us stuffed and giggling through questions on Somerset history.

Honestly, it was food that made this holiday. No fancy restaurants, just hearty, honest eats that left us full and happy. A proper reset – next time, I’m packing my apron.