I’ll never forget the drive to Shropshire – we set off from Birmingham full of beans, sandwiches packed, but about halfway there, I took a wrong turn onto some narrow lane that had me convinced we were starring in our own episode of Last of the Summer Wine. Turns out it was just a cheeky shortcut through the countryside, but it added an extra half-hour of meandering past woolly sheep and the odd tractor. Still, by the time we rolled up to this lovely single-storey spot in Alberbury, I was buzzing with anticipation – you know that fluttery excitement when you’re dying for a cuppa and to kick off your shoes?

First impressions? Blimey, it was spot on. The place opened up into this spacious open-plan haven, all cosy and inviting, with a kitchen/diner that screamed “get cooking!” We dumped the bags and straight away I was rifling through the well-stocked cupboards – proper herbs, decent olive oil, even a slow cooker. Off-road parking was a godsend after that drive, and spotting the hot tub in the grounds had us grinning like kids. It felt like the perfect bolt-hole for just the two of us, tucked away in this serene bit of Shropshire.

Food became our mission from the off. That first evening, I fancied playing masterchef in the kitchen. Grabbed some local sausages from a butcher in nearby Forden – thick, herby beauties – and paired them with mash and gravy I rustled up from scratch. It wasn’t Gordon Ramsay, mind, but eaten at the dining table with a bottle of red, it hit the spot. We curled up on the plush sofa after, toasting marshmallows by the woodburning stove, bellies full and content.

Next morning, we pottered over to Alberbury’s little village shop – a proper community gem with fresh bread, cheeses, and jars of local chutney. I nabbed eggs and bacon for brekkie, which we fried up while sipping coffee from the window seat. Laughing about my “chef skills” – let’s just say the eggs were a bit more scramble than sunny-side-up – it was one of those moments where you realise how daft you are in the kitchen but how much fun it is anyway. Self-reflection over fried breakfast: maybe I’m better at eating than cooking!

Lunches were picnic-style from the markets in Welshpool, just a quick hop away – think pork pies, Shropshire Blue cheese, and apple slices so crisp they crunched like autumn leaves. Evenings? Pub crawls on foot. The nearest one, a cosy local in Alberbury, served up the best fish and chips I’ve had in ages – batter light as air, mushy peas on point. Another night, we tried the roast at a spot in Forden: massive Yorkshire puds, crackling that sang, and veg from nearby farms. I even attempted a shepherd’s pie one night, using lamb from the butcher – turned out half-decent, if I do say so, though the boyfriend’s raised eyebrow suggested room for improvement.

We whiled away hours in the hot tub plotting our next meal, debating pub grub versus home-cooked triumphs. One hilarious flop was my “gourmet” pasta – overcooked noodles and a sauce that tasted more like wallpaper paste – but we laughed it off with takeaways from the village chippy. By the end of the week, stuffed to the gills and utterly relaxed, I was plotting our return. Shropshire’s food scene, from farm-fresh markets to hearty pub nosh, made this holiday pure bliss. If you’re after a feed-focused escape, this neck of the woods delivers.