I’ll never forget the drive up to our little holiday cottage in North Wales – or rather, right on that quirky English-Welsh border, just a mile down a winding country lane. We’d set off from home full of beans, dreaming of lazy mornings with bacon butties and endless cups of tea. But halfway there, disaster struck: I took a wrong turn near Oswestry and ended up on a single-track road that had me white-knuckling the steering wheel as a tractor bore down on us. “This is it,” I thought, “we’re going to be roadkill before we even unpack the groceries!” Miraculously, we squeezed by, laughing hysterically, and arrived just as the sun dipped low, casting a golden glow over the place. First impressions? Magic. The cottage looked like a proper cosy hideaway, all welcoming and tucked away from the world.

We couldn’t wait to settle in and get stuck into some proper foodie fun – that’s what holidays are for, right? First job: raid the fridge. The hosts had stocked it with local Shropshire butter, fresh milk, and a cheeky bottle of Welsh cider. I fancied myself as a master chef, so I whipped up a Welsh rarebit for supper using some crumbly cheddar we’d grabbed en route. It was a bit of a gloopy mess – more glue than melt – but slathered on thick toast with a dollop of chutney, it hit the spot. We washed it down with that cider, toasting our narrow escape from tractor doom.

Next morning, we pottered over to Ellesmere, just five miles away, for the market. Oh, what a treat! Stalls groaning under piles of artisan breads, plump sausages from local butchers, and jars of honeycomb that smelled like summer. I loaded up on smoked bacon, free-range eggs, and a wedge of caerphilly cheese so creamy it practically wept when I cut it. Back at the cottage, my cooking attempt number two: a full fry-up. Sausages sizzling, mushrooms foraged from the lane (well, bought at the market, but who’s counting?), and eggs fried to perfection. The other half declared it “better than the pub,” which was high praise indeed.

Pubs became our happy place. There’s a cracking one in the village, all low beams and roaring fire, where we sank pints of bitter and devoured platters of fish and chips – the batter so crisp, it shattered like glass. Another night, we drove to Oswestry’s market town, nine miles off, for pie and mash at a no-nonsense local. The steak and ale pie was a hug in pastry form, gravy bubbling over, served with veg from nearby farms. We even tried our hand at a cottage loaf that evening, kneading away in the kitchen while chatting about nothing. Mine rose like a champ, theirs... well, let’s say it was more pancake than loaf. Gentle reminder to self: stick to eating, not baking.

Those days blurred into a haze of markets, meals, and merry pub crawls. A quick splash at Alderford Lake nearby fuelled family feasts of picnic hampers – pasties and pork scratchings all round. Reflecting now, it wasn’t just the food that fed us; it was the simple joy of pottering about, bellies full, hearts content. If you’re after a break where every meal’s an event, this borderland gem is unbeatable. We’re already plotting our return – tractor dodge or no.