I finally made it to Somerset after a bit of a faff on the journey down from Bristol. I'd taken the scenic route through those rolling hills, but my sat-nav decided to have a hissy fit just outside Yeovil, sending me down a narrow lane that was more cow path than road. Picture me, reversing into a hedge while a farmer on a tractor gave me that classic "what are you playing at?" look. Still, it broke the ice – or rather, the brambles – and by the time I pulled up to the cosy little cottage, I was buzzing with anticipation. What a gem it was on arrival: a proper quaint two-bedroom affair, all tucked away in a peaceful spot with that welcoming country charm that screams "put your feet up."

First impressions? Spot on. The place had a lovely kitchen that was begging to be put to use, and after unpacking my cool bag stuffed with local treats, I was straight into planning meals. No faffing about with fancy restaurants every night – this holiday was all about savouring Somerset's foodie side, right from the cottage hearth.

Day one, I nipped to the weekly market in Yeovil, just a short hop away. Blimey, the stalls were heaving with proper West Country goodies: tangy Cheddar cheeses that could stand a spoon in, jars of scrumpy apple chutney, and piles of fresh veg that smelled like they'd been plucked from the earth that morning. I loaded up on pork pies, still warm from the butcher's oven, and some cider-baked ham that was my dinner sorted. Back at the cottage, I attempted a Somerset rarebit – melted cheese on doorstep toast with a splash of scrumpy for good measure. It was a right mess, all gooey and uneven, but washed down with a pint of local ale from the fridge, it hit the spot. Laughed at myself in the mirror, covered in crumbs, thinking, "This is why I don't do MasterChef."

Next morning, we wandered to The Masons Arms, a cracking pub not five minutes down the lane. Proper Somerset hospitality there – the landlord recommended their ham, egg and chips, which came with chips so chunky they could double as rolling pins. I paired it with a pint of Butcombe ale, smooth as you like, and we spent the afternoon chatting with locals about the best spots for cream teas. Turns out, the rule down here is jam first, then cream – who knew?

Evenings were for cooking experiments. One night, I roasted a brace of local pheasants (snagged from a farm shop nearby) with apples from the market and a cider gravy that reduced to sticky perfection. Another, we did a ploughman's with that Cheddar, pickled onions, and crusty bread from the village bakery. Not everything was a triumph – my attempt at clotted cream fudge ended up more like chewy concrete – but that's the joy of it, innit? Proper hands-on, no pretensions.

Pub crawls were the highlight, though. The White Hart in the village served up fish and chips that were golden and flaky, battered just right, with mushy peas on the side. We holed up by the fire, supping Exmoor Gold and swapping stories. One evening, after a few too many, I reflected on how these simple meals – nothing posh, just hearty and honest – made the whole trip. In the rush of city life, I forget how good it feels to slow down, chop onions with the window open to the fields, and let the smells draw you in.

By the end of the week, I'd put on half a stone and zero regrets. If you're after a food-focused escape in Somerset, find yourself a cottage like this and dive in. You'll come home fuller in every sense.