I’ll never forget the drive up from London to Gorebridge – what should’ve been a straightforward motorway slog turned into a comedy of errors when my sat-nav decided to play silly buggers and rerouted us through every winding B-road in the Borders. We ended up stopping at a petrol station for emergency sausage rolls just to keep the peace, but by the time we crested the hill into this quiet Midlothian village, the anticipation was bubbling over. There it was, our holiday let: a grand old mansion house with that classic Georgian elegance, all symmetrical windows and welcoming porch lights glowing against the twilight. First impressions? Spot on – it felt like stepping into someone’s posh family home, complete with a massive kitchen that screamed “get cooking!”

We dumped the bags and cracked open a bottle of local craft beer from the fridge (cheers to previous guests for the leftovers), then raided the nearby shops for supplies. Gorebridge has this cracking little Tesco Express and a proper butcher’s that stocks the freshest mince and haggis you could wish for. First night, I fancied myself a MasterChef and attempted a Burns Night special – neeps, tatties, and whisky-infused gravy. It was a heroic fail; the gravy turned into wallpaper paste, but paired with buttery mash, it was edible enough washed down with Tennent’s. We laughed till our sides hurt, toasting to “holiday disasters that taste alright.”

Next morning, we wandered down to the village high street – all of five minutes’ walk – and hit the weekly market at the community centre. Blimey, the stalls were a feast: artisan cheeses from local farms, crusty sourdough loaves still warm from the oven, and piles of Scottish strawberries that were sweeter than candy floss. I loaded up on venison sausages and smoked salmon, dreaming of elevenses. Back at the house, the kitchen became our playground. I nailed a simple Cullen skink for lunch – creamy smoked haddock soup with chunks of potato – using a pan that must’ve seen decades of family suppers. The other half rustled up oatcakes and cheddar, and we picnicked in the garden, watching the clouds scoot over the Pentland Hills.

Evenings were for pubs, naturally. The Golf Tavern, just a stroll away, does a mean beer-battered haddock with chips that could convert a vegan. Pints of Belhaven Best flowed, and we chatted with locals about their top spots – turns out the Arniston Arms nearby does cracking Sunday roasts with Yorkshire puds the size of hubcaps. One night, we pushed the boat out with a full Scottish breakfast attempt at home: lorne sausage, black pudding, tattie scones, the works. Spot on, apart from my slightly cremated bacon – lesson learned: don’t multitask with the toaster.

Staying here made me reflect on how we rush through life, always eating on the go. This trip slowed us down, turning meals into events – from botched experiments to pub perfection. Gorebridge isn’t flashy, but its food scene, from markets to cosy boozers, fed our souls as much as our bellies. Can’t wait to go back for more.