I’ll never forget the drive down to Herefordshire – we’d packed the car to the gills with posh cheeses and a bottle of elderflower cordial I’d nabbed from the local farm shop back home, only for the sat-nav to chuck us into a muddy lane just outside Bromyard. Proper comedy of errors, that was; we slid about like Bambi on ice before backing out, laughing our heads off and vowing to stick to the main roads next time. But oh, the anticipation built as we neared the spot – visions of lazy mornings with fresh eggs and endless cups of tea dancing in our heads.

Pulling up to this tucked-away converted cart shed on a quiet farmyard, a stone’s throw from Bromyard, we were smitten straight away. High-spec finish, those unspoilt views over the gardens to the lake and paddock – it screamed perfect getaway for us two couples. Inside, the open-plan living space wrapped us in traditional charm, with a snug seating area round a warming Aga electric fire in the corner, ideal for evenings in front of the telly with a cheeky GandT.

Food was the absolute star of our stay, naturally. First morning, we pottered into Bromyard’s market – what a gem. Stalls groaning under piles of local strawberries, plump sausages from nearby butchers, and wheels of Herefordshire cheddar that could make you weep. I grabbed a punnet of raspberries and some smoked bacon, dreaming of a full English. Back at the cottage, my attempt at frying it all up on the Aga turned into a right farce – the bacon curled like a question mark, and I nearly set off the smoke alarm juggling rashers. Still, slathered on thick farmhouse bread with a dollop of chutney from the market, it tasted like heaven. We chuckled over it, me reflecting that maybe I’m better at eating than cooking after all.

Lunches were picnic affairs in the garden, with pasties from the Bromyard bakery – flaky, stuffed with proper West Country beef and spuds – washed down with cider from a nearby orchard. Evenings? Pub crawls on foot, keeping it local. The nearest, just a short stroll, did the best pie I’ve had in ages: steak and ale, with mash so creamy it was criminal. We swapped stories with locals over pints of bitter, them raving about the county’s apple harvests. One night, we splashed out on fish and chips from a chippy in town – haddock crisp as autumn leaves, vinegar sharp enough to wake the dead – eaten on the patio watching the sun dip over the paddock.

Tried our hand at a cottage supper too: roasted a shoulder of lamb from the market, bunged in rosemary from the garden and Herefordshire potatoes. Came out a treat, surprisingly – tender, juicy, with gravy that reduced to sticky perfection on the Aga. Paired with a bottle of local red from Ledbury way (just close enough), it felt dead posh. Sat there, bellies full, gazing at the lake view, I had a quiet moment thinking how these simple meals, shared with mates, beat any fancy restaurant. No airs, just good grub and better company.

By the end of the week, we’d devoured our way through Bromyard’s delights – from cream teas at the café to pork pies pinched from the farm shop. Heavier in the middle, lighter in the soul, we packed up reluctantly, already plotting the next food-focused jaunt. Herefordshire, you’ve ruined me for supermarket sandwiches forever.