I’d been dreaming about this little getaway for weeks, but the drive from Birmingham turned into a proper comedy of errors when I took a wrong turn near Church Stretton and ended up navigating some narrow lanes that had me white-knuckling the steering wheel. The satnav kept cheerfully insisting I was “recalculating,” while I muttered about trusting technology less next time. Still, as we crested the hill into Little Stretton, the Shropshire Hills unfolded like a postcard, all rolling green and sheep-dotted bliss, and my heart lifted. Spotting the place on the outskirts, nestled right in the Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty with those cracking country views, I knew we’d struck gold. First impressions? Spot on – this cosy studio-style annex felt like a hug from an old mate, welcoming and just right for us two.

We dumped the bags and headed straight for the ground-floor utility room to chuck our walking gear into the washer/dryer – genius for keeping things fresh when you’re plotting pub crawls. Up the stairs to the open-plan living space, those Velux windows flooded the place with light, perfect for sizing up the well-equipped kitchen. Dishwasher? Tick. I was already itching to play house chef, though let’s be honest, my skills are more “enthusiastic amateur” than MasterChef.

First morning, we wandered into Church Stretton for the local market – what a gem. Stalls groaning with Shropshire produce: artisan cheeses that could make you weep, fresh veg straight from nearby farms, and plump sausages begging to be grilled. I grabbed some local bacon, eggs from free-range hens, and a loaf of crusty bread that smelled like heaven. Back at the annex, I attempted a full English in the kitchen – frying up bacon till it crisped just right, poaching eggs (one burst, typical me), and even managing mushrooms and tomatoes on the side. Washed down with tea from the kettle while gazing out at the hills. Simple, but it hit the spot, and I felt a proper smug glow.

Evenings were for the pubs, and Shropshire does them proud within a cheeky stroll or short drive. The Ragleth Inn down the road became our haunt – pint of local Shropshire Lad ale, then pie and mash that was pure comfort. Their steak and ale pie? Flaky pastry, tender beef, gravy you could swim in. Another night, we hit the Porterhouse in Little Stretton for fish and chips, wrapped in paper like the old days, with mushy peas that were spot-on. I tried recreating the batter back home in the kitchen – flour, beer, a dash of smoked paprika – but it turned into a greasy disaster. Laughing over the bin, we reflected on how holidays like this remind you it’s not about perfection; it’s the messing about together that sticks.

One highlight was sourcing bits from the market for a “gourmet” pasta night: wild garlic pesto (foraged vibes, though shop-bought), cherry tomatoes bursting with flavour, and Shropshire Blue cheese crumbled on top. The dishwasher made short work of the chaos, leaving us to flop on the sofa with wine, windows open to the night air. Pub lunches mid-hike – think ploughman’s at a hillside spot, cheddar sharp as a tack, pickle tangy enough to wake you up. By the end, I’d gained a stone in memories (and probably actual weight), pondering how easy it is to forget the joy of slow food when life’s rushing. If you’re after a bolthole where meals and pints steal the show, this corner of Shropshire’s your spot. We’re already plotting a return.