I’ll never forget the drive down to Herefordshire – sat nav had me veering off into some dodgy B-road, and wouldn’t you know it, we ended up with a flat tyre just past Worcester. Me, faffing about with the spare in the pouring rain, while the kids laughed from the car. Half an hour later, we were back on track, hearts racing a bit, but buzzing with that proper holiday anticipation. As we wound through the lanes, the countryside opened up like a postcard, and by the time we spotted the farm estate, I was grinning ear to ear. First impressions? Spot on. This barn conversion on a working farm is pure bliss – roomy for our lot of seven, smack in the middle of rolling fields with footpaths begging to be strolled.

We dumped the bags and cracked straight into supper, unpacking a haul from Hereford’s market that morning. I’d nipped into the city centre – just five miles up the road – and loaded up on local treats: artisan cheeses from the outdoor stalls, plump sausages from the butcher’s van, and a punnet of cider apples that smelled like autumn in a bowl. Cooking in that big farmhouse kitchen felt like playing house as adults. I attempted a proper Herefordshire stew, chucking in lamb from the estate’s own farm shop (they sell it fresh on-site, honest to goodness). It bubbled away nicely, though I overdid the thyme and it tasted like a herb garden exploded. The family polished it off anyway, with a cheeky bottle of local cider from Three Choirs Vineyard nearby. Laughter all round, and a quiet moment for me thinking, blimey, when did I last cook something from scratch without takeaways?

Next day, we hit the pubs. The local in the village was a gem – low-beamed ceilings (well, cosy anyway), and a pint of Wye Valley ale that slid down like liquid gold. They do a cracking ploughman’s with crumbly Cheddar and pickled onions that had us moaning in delight. Lunch was sorted, no faff. Evenings became a ritual: one night, fish and chips from a chippy in Hereford, wrapped in paper and devoured on the patio watching the sunset over the farmland. Another, we tried our hand at cider-battered trout I’d bought from a riverside stall – the River Wye’s only nine miles off, but we kept it local with a quick drive. My batter was a gloopy disaster (note to self: less flour next time), but fried up crisp enough, served with new potatoes from the market. The kids rated it an eight out of ten, high praise.

We mooched to Aylestone Park for a picnic one arvo – grabbed pasties and flapjacks from the bakery there, sprawled on the grass pretending we were proper country folk. Pub crawls turned into highlights: the one by Hereford Racecourse for a Sunday roast, all golden Yorkshire puds the size of saucers and gravy you could swim in. I even snuck in a solo reflection over coffee at a tearoom in town, watching the market traders pack up, realising how these simple meals – markets, farms, pubs – knit a holiday together better than any fancy itinerary.

Back home now, I’m already plotting the next trip. Herefordshire’s fed us body and soul – who knew a barn and a bit of home cooking could taste so good?