I’ll never forget the drive up to Bishop's Castle – we took the scenic route through the Shropshire hills, windows down, singing along to some dodgy 90s playlist. But about 20 miles out, disaster struck: a rogue sheep decided our SatNav was personal, and we ended up on a single-track lane that felt like it hadn’t seen daylight since the war. Heart in mouth, reversing round blind corners while the kids in the back yelled “Muuuum!”, we finally escaped with only a scraped wing mirror and my dignity slightly dented. Still, as we crested the hill and spotted the town nestled below, all that stress melted away. I could already picture cracking open a cold one in the garden.

Pulling into the off-road parking, my first impressions were spot on – this elevated ground-floor apartment looked like a proper home from home, tucked next to the owners’ place in these lush 2.5 acres of grounds. No faffing with stairs, just straight into light, airy vibes with an open-plan living space begging for a woodburning stove session. The bedrooms were a treat too, one with its own balcony and en-suite, and outside? A pretty lawned garden for alfresco nosh, plus that hot tub and summerhouse calling my name after a day of munching.

Food was the absolute star of our stay – Bishop's Castle’s got this historic market town charm that screams proper grub. First evening, we wandered the short stroll into the centre and hit the Six Bells, a cracking little pub where the pie and mash was so hearty it could’ve powered a rugby team. Golden pastry, flaky and steaming, with gravy that tasted like it was brewed by angels. We washed it down with local Shropshire ales – smooth, malty stuff from nearby breweries that had us toasting to no more sheep standoffs.

Next morning, Saturday market day, we loaded up on fresh produce: crusty sourdough from the bakery stall, local cheeses that were sharp and creamy, and a punnet of plump tomatoes begging to be roasted. Back at the apartment, I fancied myself a MasterChef in the well-kitted kitchen. Attempted a posh Ploughman’s with that cheddar, some pickled onions, and a homemade chutney I rustled up from market apples. Turned out alright, if a bit chutney-heavy – the kids politely picked around it, which was my cue for a gentle eye-roll at my culinary ambitions. “Mum, next time just do beans on toast,” they grinned. Fair play, they weren’t wrong.

Evenings were for pub-hopping. The Olde Bull’s Head did a mean Sunday roast – crackling that snapped like fireworks, veg straight from local farms, and Yorkshire puds the size of hubcaps. We cooked in too, firing up the stove for a cheesy pasta bake with market mushrooms and bacon, then spilling out to the hot tub with mugs of tea, steam rising as we dissected the day’s feasts. One night, I tried my hand at a full brekkie fry-up: eggs from the farm stall, black pudding that was proper peppery, and sausages that sizzled like they meant business. Nearly set off the smoke alarm, mind – a classic me moment, laughing at my own chaos while the family tucked in regardless.

Honestly, reflecting on it now, this trip was a reminder that the best holidays aren’t about grand plans, but savouring simple, belly-filling joys. No fancy restaurants needed when you’ve got markets bursting with goodies, pubs slinging soul-warming grub, and a kitchen to muck about in. We left fuller in every sense, already plotting the next food-focused getaway.