I’ll never forget the drive up to Perthshire – rain lashing the windscreen like it had a personal grudge, and me taking a wrong turn just outside Pitlochry because the satnav decided to have a mid-journey sulk. Twenty minutes of narrow lanes and a few choice mutters later, we finally wound our way along the River Tay, hearts lifting as the clouds parted to reveal Aberfeldy’s gentle hills. Spotting the place ahead, nestled on the outskirts with Loch Tay shimmering in the distance and those vast, wild gardens stretching out, I felt that proper holiday buzz kick in. What a stunner – grand yet cosy, the sort of estate that whispers “relax, you’ve earned this.”

We’d booked one of those self-catering spots perfect for foodie fiddling, and boy, did it deliver. First morning, I pottered into the kitchen, eyeing the Aga like it was an old friend (it wasn’t – more on that later). Popped down to Aberfeldy’s high street market, just a quick hop away, where stalls groaned under fresh Perthshire raspberries, tatties still caked in soil, and venison haunches that looked too good to pass up. Grabbed some smoked salmon too, silky and local, plus crusty loaves from the bakery van. Back at the house, I attempted a fry-up supreme: black pudding sizzling, eggs poached just so, and those berries muddled into a makeshift compote. Turned out half-decent, though the Aga’s heat zones had me playing guessing games – one side cremated the bacon while the other barely warmed the mushrooms. Laughed it off with a cuppa, gazing out at the gardens buzzing with birds.

Evenings were for pubs, naturally. The Blackbird Inn in Aberfeldy, a stone’s throw down the road, became our haunt. Pint of local ale – something peaty and Perthshire-brewed – followed by haggis bonbons that melted in the mouth, all sticky toffee pud for afters. Proper heartwarming stuff, with locals chatting about the Tay’s salmon runs like it was yesterday’s footie scores. Another night, we ambled to the Watermill in Aberfeldy, right by the river, for wood-fired pizzas loaded with wild mushrooms and that same smoked salmon. I went overboard on the garlic dough balls, blaming the fresh air for my greed.

Tried my hand at a proper Scottish supper mid-week, market haul in tow: lamb from the hill farms, neeps and tatties, and a crumble with foraged-ish brambles (okay, bought from the greengrocer). The oven was more forgiving than the Aga, but I still overdid the whisky gravy – tasted like a peaty hug gone wild. Sat there with my other half, plates scraped clean, reflecting on how daft I am in kitchens back home, rushing everything. Here, with the loch’s calm outside and no deadlines, faffing over food felt like the point.

Wandered to the Dewar’s Aberfeldy Distillery tearoom for elevenses – shortbread so buttery it flaked like autumn leaves – and nipped into the village shop for cheeses that paired perfectly with our riverside picnic. Every meal was a love letter to the land: simple, seasonal, soul-filling. Left with a belly full of memories (and probably a stone heavier), vowing to recreate that bramble crumble without the collateral damage. Perthshire’s my food haven now – who needs fancy when you’ve got this?