I’ll never forget the drive to our holiday house in South Shropshire – a proper faff from the motorway, winding up into the hills on these narrow lanes that had me gripping the wheel like it was a lifeline. We’d packed the car with enough food to feed a small army: cheeses, fresh bread from the MandS Simply Fuller range, and a bottle of decent red for emergencies. But about five miles from All Stretton, disaster struck – a rogue pheasant decided to play chicken with the bonnet, sending feathers everywhere and me swearing under my breath (well, quietly, with the kids in the back). Heart racing, we pulled over, checked for damage (none, phew), and carried on, my anticipation bubbling up despite the fright. What a way to arrive!

Pulling up to this substantial detached house on the side of the Long Mynd, I was gobsmacked. Perched with stunning views over the hills, it’s got five bedrooms, four bath/shower rooms, and these massive gardens stretching to about two acres – perfect for kids to burn off steam while we cracked on with the important business of eating. First impressions? Spot on. Spacious, light rooms that felt like a hug after the drive, and a kitchen big enough to host a dinner party for the village.

Food was the star of the show from the off. We’d stopped at the local farm shop in Church Stretton on the way – think creamy Shropshire Blue cheese, plump sausages from rare-breed pork, and jars of chutney that screamed homemade. Unpacked and straight into action: I attempted a roast chicken with all the trimmings that first night, using veg from the garden (broad beans and spuds that tasted of proper earth). It wasn’t Gordon Ramsay, mind – the potatoes came out a bit lumpy because I got distracted by the view – but slathered in gravy from the farm shop stock, it hit the spot. We washed it down with that red, toasting our survival of the pheasant incident.

Next day, we wandered down to All Stretton’s village shop for supplies – bacon butties for brekkie using their thick-cut rashers, still warm from the smoker. Lunch was a picnic in the garden: pork pies, scotch eggs, and a flask of tea, with the hills rolling out like a postcard. Evening called for the pub – a short stroll to the Ragleth Inn, where the beer’s crisp and the menu’s all local. I went for the Shropshire lamb shank, slow-cooked till it fell off the bone, with mash that was pure comfort. My other half had the venison pie; we shared sticky toffee pudding, giggling over how we’d never manage this at home without the washing-up fairy.

Midweek, I had a proper kitchen fail trying to bake Shropshire fennel cake from a recipe scribbled on a postcard from the farm shop. It rose like a dream but sank in the middle – a soggy mess that we heroically turned into trifle with cream and berries. Laughing about it over cider at the pub later, I reflected on how these daft moments make holidays. No rush, just good grub and each other. We hit the Church Stretton Thursday market too – stalls groaning with artisan breads, honey from Long Mynd hives, and fresh trout. Armed with that, dinner was pan-fried fish with lemon from the garden, sides of new potatoes and a watercress salad. Simple, fresh, brilliant.

By the end of the week, we’d eaten like kings – pub roasts, home-cooked feasts, market hauls – all without a single takeaway in sight. That house, those views, the food frenzy… it was the perfect reset. Can’t wait to go back for more.