I’ll never forget the drive down to Somerset – we’d packed the car with enough cheese dreams to sink a battleship, but halfway there, just past Bristol, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us looping through some back lane that felt like it hadn’t seen tarmac since the war. A proper comedy of errors, with me yelling at the screen while my other half munched crisps in the passenger seat. But as we finally crested that hill towards Cheddar, the anticipation kicked in – visions of lazy mornings with fresh scones and endless cream teas. And blimey, the first glimpse of the place didn’t disappoint: this cosy detached cottage, all welcoming and tucked away in the Mendips, with a garden begging for a GandT at sunset.

Stepping inside, the kitchen was a dream for any self-respecting foodie – we’d planned to live off local spoils, and it had everything from a cracking oven to a hob begging for a fry-up. First stop that afternoon? Straight to the village for supplies. Cheddar’s got that brilliant farm shop vibe; we loaded up on crumbly mature Cheddar (obviously), thick clotted cream, and plump strawberries that were bursting with summer. Back at the cottage, I had a bash at making scones – total disaster at first, ended up more like rock buns, but slathered with jam and cream, they went down a treat with a pot of builder’s tea. Laughed about it over the table, me admitting I’m no Mary Berry, but there’s something therapeutic about faffing in a holiday kitchen, isn’t there?

Evenings were all about the pubs – there’s a gem just a short stroll away, the kind with low ceilings and locals who chat like old mates. First night, we went for the ploughman’s: hunks of Cheddar, pickled onions, and crusty bread that soaked up the ale perfectly. Washed it down with a pint of Somerset’s own – sharp, hoppy stuff that hits the spot after a day pottering. Next day, we wandered to the weekly market in the village hall, nabbed some pork pies, fresh baps, and a wedge of Blue Vinny that’s unique to these parts – tangy and perfect crumbled over a salad. Cooked up a storm that lunch: attempted a cheese soufflé (wobbly but edible) with rocket from the garden plot nearby.

One highlight was the pub’s Sunday roast – proper job, with Yorkshire puds the size of hubcaps, roasties crisp as you like, and lashings of gravy. We staggered back stuffed, vowing to walk it off, but ended up collapsing with a cheeseboard instead. Self-reflection moment: holidays like this make you realise how daft it is rushing through meals back home – here, every bite’s a linger, every pub chat a bonus. By the last day, we’d mastered a decent cider-braised ham using market finds, and left with recipes scribbled on napkins. Somerset’s food scene is unpretentious magic; that cottage stay was the perfect base to devour it all. Can’t wait to go back for more.