I’ll never forget the drive down to Somerset last month – me behind the wheel of our trusty old Fiesta, sat-nav chirping away like it knew better than the winding lanes. We’d set off from Bristol full of beans, dreaming of cream teas and proper countryside air, but about halfway there, disaster struck: a rogue pheasant decided to play chicken with the car right on a narrow bend near Chard. Heart in my mouth, I swerved, missed it by a whisker, and ended up with a muddy verge souvenir on the tyres. Still, we laughed it off over emergency pork scratchings from a service station, and by the time we trundled up the final hill, anticipation was bubbling. What a first glimpse – that cosy stone cottage nestled in the folds of the Blackdown Hills, all welcoming with its flower baskets and a faint whiff of woodsmoke. Proper holiday magic.

We’d booked this charming rural cottage for a week, the sort with a snug kitchen that begged for messing about in, and from the off, it was all about the food. Unpacked in ten minutes flat, we cracked open a bottle of local cider from the welcome basket (cheers to that touch) and planned our first feast. The nearby Chard Town Market was calling – just a quick hop down the road on Wednesday morning. We wandered its stalls under a drizzly sky, haggling for fresh Somerset Brie, plump apples from the orchards, and a slab of venison from some cheery farmer who swore it was shot that week. Bargain heaven, and I stuffed the fridge silly, feeling like a telly chef already.

Pub grub took centre stage that first evening. The pub in the village, only a stagger away, served up the best pie I’ve had in ages – steak and ale, flaky pastry collapsing into gravy that could make you weep. We paired it with chips fat as fingers and a pint of bitter that went down smoother than a lullaby. My other half demolished a ploughman’s that looked like it fed a family of four. Laughing over how we’d both over-ordered, we waddled home to the cottage, plotting tomorrow’s kitchen takeover.

Cooking attempts? Oh, they were a highlight – or lowlight, depending on your view. Day two, I channelled my inner Jamie Oliver with that market venison, rubbing it with rosemary from the garden and slow-roasting it while we sipped more cider. Turned out a treat, though I did burn the spuds a tad (note to self: timers exist for a reason). We followed with a sticky toffee pudding I bodged from a scribbled recipe, lumpy but lush, eaten by candlelight as rain pattered the windows. Gentle reflection there: holidays like this remind me how daft I get in my own kitchen back home, rushing everything. Here, with no rush, even my disasters tasted brilliant.

Midweek, we hit the farm shop not five minutes off, loading up on bacon from rare-breed pigs and artisan bread that smelled like heaven. Breakfasts became feasts – fried eggs from local hens, thick rashers sizzling, and pots of Clotted cream on scones we baked ourselves (success!). Evenings meant more pub crawls within shouting distance: one with cider-battered fish that flaked at the fork, another with Sunday roasts so mammoth we skipped lunch next day. One hilarious mishap – I ordered ‘devilled kidneys’ thinking it sounded posh; turned out spicy as sin, had me fanning my mouth like a dragon while everyone chuckled.

By week’s end, we’d eaten like kings, waddled a few pounds heavier, and I’d reflected on how these simple, hearty meals – markets, pubs, cottage experiments – make a holiday sing. Somerset’s food scene, so close and unpretentious, is pure joy. Can’t wait to go back.