I’ll never forget the drive down to that little spot on the edge of Bathealton – SatNav had me convinced we were nearly there, then it chucked us into a muddy farm track that wasn’t even on the map. Typical me, panicking about the hire car while my other half laughed and said it was all part of the adventure. Twenty minutes of reversing and U-turning later, we rolled up to this gorgeous holiday cottage perched in its own half-acre garden, right on the fringe of the village in a proper conservation area. The views across the open countryside hit us like a warm hug – rolling fields stretching out, sheep dotted about, and not a hint of traffic noise. First impressions? Pure bliss. I was already dreaming of kicking back with a cuppa on the patio.

We’d stocked up on basics from the local shop in nearby Milverton before the detour, but the real fun kicked off with unpacking and plotting our foodie assault on Somerset. The cottage kitchen was a dream – proper Aga vibes, plenty of space for faffing about. First night, I fancied myself as a cordon bleu chef, rustling up a roast chicken with veg from the garden (well, herbs at least – the courgettes were a bit ambitious). It came out alright, if a tad pink in the middle, but washed down with a bottle of local cider from the Bathealton farm shop, it felt five-star. We sat outside as the sun dipped, that panoramic view making everything taste better. Self-reflection moment: I’m no MasterChef, but there’s something dead satisfying about cooking on holiday when there’s no rush.

Next morning, we wandered into the village for their little market – nothing fancy, just a couple of stalls with fresh bread, cheeses, and those fat, juicy strawberries Somerset does so well. Grabbed some Exmoor Blue and a loaf still warm from the oven, then headed to The White Hart in the heart of Bathealton. Proper country pub, low ceilings, chatty locals nursing pints. We went for ploughman’s – hunks of Cheddar, pickle sharp enough to wake you up, and bread that didn’t last five minutes. Mine was massive; I waddled out grinning, vowing to walk it off later.

Evenings became a ritual of pub-hopping within easy striking distance. The Brompton Arms in Ashbrittle was a gem – we demolished fish and chips one night, the batter crisp as anything, mushy peas on the side because why not? Another day, I tried my hand at Somerset rarebit back at the cottage, using local ale in the sauce. Smelt amazing, tasted… interesting. Chuckled over that one with a glass of red, admitting I’d stick to the pros next time.

Local markets kept us going – popped to Wiveliscombe on a Thursday for their farmers’ market, loaded up on pork pies, homemade chutneys, and scones with clotted cream that were pure heaven. Back home, slathered them with jam for elevenses, gazing out at the countryside. One hilarious low was my attempt at a full English: bacon from the farm shop curled up like it was auditioning for a comedy sketch. Still, the eggs were spot on, and we polished it off laughing.

Those few days were all about that unhurried food life – simple, hearty grub, pub banter, and the odd kitchen disaster keeping us grounded. Left feeling stuffed, content, and already plotting the next trip. Somerset knows how to feed a soul.