I’ll never forget the drive up to Nantmel – sat nav had me convinced we’d make it in under three hours from the Midlands, but no, a cheeky diversion thanks to roadworks near Builth Wells turned it into a four-hour crawl. Picture me, gripping the wheel, kids in the back moaning about needing the loo every ten miles, and my other half pretending to nap while sneakily scrolling for nearby chip shops. By the time we crested that final hill, hearts racing with that proper holiday buzz, I was proper starving and dreaming of a decent pint.

Pulling into the off-road parking spot, we were gobsmacked by the spot – bang in the middle of those lush Elan and Claerwen Valleys, just outside the village, rolling hills everywhere you look. It’s a cracking holiday home for six, dead cosy and spot-on for a family like ours. Stepped inside to this bright open-plan living space, floor-to-ceiling windows letting the countryside light flood in. Shoes off, bags dumped – we were home.

First mission: grub. No faffing about with fancy restaurants; we wanted proper local nosh. Drove the short hop to Rhayader, all of 4.3 miles, and hit up the farmers’ market on the Saturday morning. Blimey, what a gem – stalls heaving with Welsh cheeses, plump leeks, artisan breads, and these massive free-range eggs that looked like they’d come from dinosaurs. Snagged some smoked bacon from a local butcher, a wedge of caerphilly that was sharp enough to wake you up, and a punnet of damsons for pud. Back at the lodge, I fancied myself as the next MasterChef, rustling up a full Welsh breakfast: cockles from a tin (cheating, I know), laverbread on thick toast, and fried eggs that somehow stayed runny despite my best efforts to overdo it. The kids wolfed it down, declaring it “better than McDonald’s” – high praise indeed.

Evenings were pub central. The Red Lion in Nantmel, a stone’s throw away, became our local. Proper village boozer with a roaring fire, where the landlord pulls a cracking pint of Brains and dishes up steak and ale pies that could convert a vegan. One night, we tried the lamb shank special – slow-cooked to perfection, mash fluffy as clouds – washed down with local cider that had us giggling like idiots. My attempt at a post-pub curry back at the lodge? Disaster. Jar of madras sauce exploded in the pan, turned the kitchen into a spice bomb site. Laughed till we cried, scraping it onto naan from the Rhayader bakery we’d stocked up on.

A gentle walk to the village shop for milk turned into a bacon sarnie fest – they do them fresh, with doorstep bread and HP sauce on tap. Reflected over coffee one morning, staring out those massive windows at the misty valleys: we’re so caught up in city rush, aren’t we? Here, it’s all about simple joys – foraging market bits, botched recipes, and pub banter that sticks with you. Best bit? No washing up rotas enforced. We left fatter, happier, and already plotting the next trip for more of that valley magic.