I’ll never forget the drive down to Herefordshire – we’d packed the car with enough cheese and crackers to last a siege, only for the sat-nav to chuck us into a muddy farm track just outside Kington. Heart in mouth, we reversed out with the tyres spinning like mad, laughing our heads off as the dog looked at us like we’d lost the plot. But once we shook off the cowpat aroma, the anticipation built – visions of cosy evenings and proper country grub dancing in my head.

Pulling up to the lodge felt like stumbling into a hug from an old mate. It’s one of those snug wooden retreats tucked into the hillside, all warm lights and welcoming vibes, with a deck that screams “crack open a cider”. First impressions? Spot on. We dumped the bags and raided the kitchen straight away, firing up the hob for a slapdash pasta with whatever we’d rustled up from the boot – garlic, cherry tomatoes, and a cheeky splash of olive oil. It wasn’t MasterChef, but after that drive, it tasted like heaven.

Next morning, we mooched into Kington for the market. Blimey, what a treat – stalls groaning under fresh veg, artisan cheeses that could make you weep, and those fat, golden pasties from the local bakery. I loaded up on courgettes, herbs, and a slab of Herefordshire beef, dreaming of a Sunday roast. Back at the lodge, my cooking attempt was ambitious: a beef stew with root veg and a pint of ale reduction. It bubbled away while we sipped tea on the deck, watching the kites soar overhead. Turned out a bit lumpy – note to self, I’m no Jamie Oliver – but with some crusty bread from the market, it was pure comfort. That gentle flop had me reflecting: holidays are for faffing in the kitchen without the daily grind nagging at you, aren’t they? No rush, just the joy of messing about with good ingredients.

Evenings were pub perfection. The first night, we wandered to the nearest boozer, just a short stroll away – think low ceilings, roaring fire, and locals who’d chat your ear off. I went for the cider-battered fish and chips, flaky and golden, with mushy peas that hit the spot. My other half demolished a proper pie, all flaky pastry and rich gravy. We nursed pints of local brew, swapping stories with the barman about the best spots for foraging blackberries (we found some the next day for a crumble disaster – too much sugar, but who cares?).

Day three, another market haul: plump sausages, smoked bacon, and eggs from free-range hens that tasted like sunshine. Breakfast at the lodge became a feast – fried eggs, bacon rashers, and toast slathered in homemade chutney we’d impulse-bought. Lunch was picnic-style on the deck: cheese ploughman’s with pickled onions and that cracking beef sliced thin. Dinner? A valiant crack at blackberry and apple pie, using berries we’d picked ourselves. It wobbled more than it should’ve, but dolloped with custard from the village shop, it was bliss.

Those few days were all about the eating – simple, hearty, and unpretentious. No fancy restaurants, just markets, pubs, and my dodgy culinary experiments. Left me fuller in every sense, pondering how a bit of Herefordshire soil makes everything taste better. Can’t wait to go back for more.