I’ll never forget the drive up to our holiday spot in North Wales – well, technically just over the border into Shropshire, but close enough for that lush Welsh hillside vibe. We’d piled into the car from Birmingham with high hopes, me navigating on my phone while my other half drove. Big mistake. Somewhere near Whitchurch, I managed to send us down a narrow farm track that turned into a muddy quagmire after a bit of rain. The car fishtailed like a duck on ice, and we ended up stuck for 20 minutes, laughing hysterically as a local farmer towed us out with his tractor. “Welcome to rural Britain,” he chuckled. By the time we arrived, hearts still racing a bit, I was buzzing with anticipation – what if the place was a dud after that?

Pulling up to the semi-detached red brick farmhouse, though, all was forgiven. Dating back to the 17th century, it sat bang in the middle of grazing pastures on the owners’ 50-acre working stock farm, with cracking views over their wildlife lake. First impressions? Spot on. We stepped into this spacious open-plan living area, split by a grand central staircase, and it felt like home straight away. The bespoke kitchen screamed “cook up a storm,” complete with a massive farmhouse table, and those comfy leather sofas in the sitting room were begging for a post-meal slump.

Food was the absolute star of our stay – we’d planned it that way, stocking up on the drive. First night, I fancied playing chef. The kitchen was kitted out brilliantly: posh oven, every gadget imaginable. I attempted a Welsh rarebit with local cheddar from a farm shop near Market Drayton, just three miles away. Smothered thick bread in a cheesy, beer-infused sauce – it bubbled up gorgeously, though I overdid the mustard and nearly set my mouth on fire. We devoured it at that big table, windows open to the evening chorus from the pastures, washing it down with a bottle of something crisp from the offy. Proper indulgent.

Next morning, we wandered into Market Drayton for their market – what a gem. Stalls heaving with fresh veg, artisan breads, and pies that smelled like heaven. I nabbed some Shropshire butter, plump tomatoes, and a slab of pork pie for elevenses. Back at the cottage, lunch was my heroic attempt at a Ploughman’s: hunks of local cheese, pickled onions, and crusty bread. Turned out alright, if a tad rustic – I reflected there over a cuppa, wondering why I don’t eat this simply at home. Life’s too rushed, innit?

Evenings meant pubs. The nearest, a cosy boozer in the village not five minutes away, did the best Sunday roast we’ve had in ages – tender beef from nearby farms, Yorkshire puds like fluffy clouds, and gravy that could make you weep. Another night, we tried the chippy in Market Drayton; their battered haddock was golden perfection, with mushy peas that hit the spot after a gentle stroll around the lake. One hilarious flop was my go at cawl, that hearty Welsh stew. I chucked in lamb from the farm shop, leeks, and spuds, but forgot to skim the fat – it was more oil slick than soup. We polished it off giggling, vowing to stick to takeaways next time.

Honestly, those few days were a feast for the soul as much as the belly. Surrounded by that peaceful farm setting, tinkering in the kitchen and propping up pub bars, I realised how rare it is to slow down and just eat well. If you’re after a proper foodie escape without the faff, this corner of North Wales delivers. We’re already plotting a return – minus the mud pit detour.