I’ll never forget the drive down to Upper Sapey last month – we’d packed the car to the gills with kids, dogs, and enough crisps to last a siege, only for the sat-nav to chuck us into a muddy farm track just outside Bromyard. Heart in mouth, I reversed out while the spaniel howled like it was the end times, but we laughed it off and arrived at this gorgeous countryside retreat with the sun dipping low over the rolling hills. First impressions? Pure bliss. The open-plan layout screamed ‘relax here’, with space for everyone to sprawl out, dogs included, and views that made you forget the world.

We’d come for a family getaway, but let’s be honest, it was all about the food. That first evening, I fancied playing masterchef in the well-kitted kitchen. I rustled up a shepherd’s pie with mince from the local butcher we’d spotted en route – proper Herefordshire beef, none of your supermarket stuff. It turned out a treat, though I did burn the edges a bit (gentle self-reflection: I’m more taster than chef). We cracked open a bottle of cider from Tenbury Wells, just eight miles away, and tucked in around the big table, chatting rubbish till late. The dogs snaffled scraps underfoot, tails wagging like metronomes.

Next morning, we piled into Bromyard, a quick six-and-a-half-mile hop, for their market. What a gem – stalls groaning under fresh veg, artisan cheeses, and pies that smelled like heaven. I grabbed some local apples, a wedge of tangy Herefordshire cheddar, and plump sausages for later. Lunch was at one of those cosy independent eateries in town; we went for ploughman’s with crusty bread and pickle that had us moaning in delight. The kids demolished fish and chips from a chippy that’s been frying since my gran’s day, or so the locals reckoned.

Afternoons were for gentle ambles around the property, dreaming up dinners. One night, we attempted a roast with veg from the market – carrots like they’d been painted orange, roasties crispy as you like. Paired it with more of that Tenbury cider, crisp and cloudy. But the real stars were the pubs. We drove to a cracking one in Tenbury Wells, all low beams and log fires (didn’t bash my head once), where the Sunday roast was legendary: melt-in-the-mouth beef, Yorkshire puds the size of saucers, and gravy that could revive the dead. Another evening, closer to home in Bromyard, we hit a gastropub doing Herefordshire lamb shanks with mash so creamy it was criminal. Puds were a highlight – sticky toffee that stuck to our ribs happily.

Cooking back at the retreat became our ritual, though not without laughs. My other half tried cider-battered fish one night; it was more batter than fish, but slathered in homemade tartare sauce from market mayo, it was a hit. We even baked scones with clotted cream and those apples – a right faff, but worth it with tea on the terrace, watching the countryside glow.

Honestly, this spot’s a foodie’s dream in disguise. Surrounded by those market towns and their indie gems, you’re spoilt for hearty eats without straying far. Left with a belly full of memories and a promise to return – next time, I’m mastering that pastry.