I’ll never forget the drive over to Herefordshire last month – we’d packed the car with enough cheese and crackers to last a siege, only for the sat-nav to chuck us down a narrow lane that turned into a muddy quagmire after a sudden downpour. There we were, sliding about like Bambi on ice, me gripping the wheel and my other half yelling directions from a soggy map app. But as we finally emerged into the village of Hardwicke, just a few miles from Hay-on-Wye, the stress melted away. Spotting the off-road parking, we grabbed our bags, nipped past the patio setup with its barbecue promising future feasts, and climbed the stairs to this cracking first-floor spot. It was love at first sight – cosy open-plan living that screamed “relax here with a meal and a drink”. Perfect for us two food-obsessed souls.

First impressions? Spot on. We unpacked straight into the well-equipped kitchen, eyeing the hob like it was an old mate. No faffing about – we’d planned to hit the ground running with local grub. A quick scoot to Hay-on-Wye’s market that first morning was pure joy. The place buzzes on Wednesdays and Saturdays with stalls groaning under fresh veg, artisan breads, and cheeses that could make you weep. I snaffled up some plump tomatoes, a wedge of tangy Herefordshire cheddar, and a jar of chutney that smelled like summer in a bottle. Back at the loft, my cooking attempt turned into a right laugh: I fancied a posh pasta with those tomatoes and local sausage from a butcher we’d spotted en route. It started off grand, but I overseasoned the sauce something rotten – ended up tasting like a salty Mediterranean holiday gone wrong. We scoffed it anyway, giggling over a bottle of fizz on the sofa, vowing to do better next time.

Pubs became our happy place. The local in Hardwicke is a gem – think proper village boozer with a roaring fire and pints of real ale that slide down a treat. Their steak pie? Flaky pastry, tender meat, gravy so rich you’d sell your nan for seconds. We went back twice, once for that pie and chips, another for fish and chips that were crisp outside, fluffy within, with mushy peas that hit the spot. Hay-on-Wye’s got a couple more within easy reach, like the one doing Sunday roasts with all the trimmings – Yorkshire puds the size of hubcaps, roasties that crunch, and gravy that’s basically liquid gold. We timed it perfectly, rolling in famished after a gentle wander.

One evening, I had a proper moment of self-reflection over a failed bread pudding. I’d bought day-old loaves from the market, chucked in some cream and apples from a roadside honesty box, but it came out more brick than pud. Sitting there with a cuppa, picking at it, I thought: isn’t this the point of a holiday? Not perfection, but messing about in a kitchen that feels like home, sharing disasters and triumphs. We salvaged it with ice cream from the village shop, turning it into a messy trifle.

By the end of our stay, we’d devoured more than our fair share of local treats – bacon butties from the market, creamy risottos attempted in the loft, and pub puddings that undid all good intentions. If you’re after a break where food’s the star, this corner of Herefordshire delivers. We’re already plotting a return for more market hauls and kitchen capers.