I’ll never forget the drive down to Crickhowell – or rather, the near-disaster on the way. We’d piled into the car in Cardiff, kids buzzing with excitement, me navigating via a dodgy phone signal that kept rerouting us through every winding lane in Powys. Then, just past Abergavenny, I took a wrong turn onto a single-track road that had me white-knuckling the wheel as a tractor loomed out of nowhere. Heart in my mouth, we squeezed past with inches to spare, laughing it off with a chorus of “That was close!” By the time we crested the hill towards our luxurious hillside retreat, the stress melted away. Perched high above the town, it hit us with those breathtaking panoramic views over Crickhowell – the twinkling lights below like a postcard come to life. First impressions? Pure magic. Spacious, beautifully finished rooms welcomed us like old mates, promising lazy days and epic nights.

But let’s be honest, the real star of our stay was the food – or should I say, our valiant attempts at it, interspersed with pub crawls and market hauls. That first evening, after unpacking, we couldn’t resist heading straight to the Nantyffin Cider Mill, just a quick downhill jaunt. It’s one of those proper old-school pubs, all cosy corners and chatty locals. We demolished plates of slow-roasted lamb shank with minty gravy, chips so crisp they crunched like autumn leaves, and a sticky toffee pudding that had us all groaning in delight. Washed down with a pint of Brains – oh, perfection. I caught myself thinking, mid-bite, how often life back home feels like scoffing sandwiches at desks; this was proper indulgence.

Next morning, we wandered into Crickhowell’s little market square – it’s a gem, popping up midweek with stalls groaning under fresh Brecon Beacons lamb, artisan cheeses, and wonky veg that screamed farm-fresh. I loaded up on local sausages, smoked trout, and a wedge of caerphilly that could make you weep. Back at the retreat, with its massive kitchen begging for action, I fancied myself a chef. Big mistake. My “signature” cawl – that hearty Welsh stew – started promisingly with chunks of mutton and leeks from the market, but I overseasoned it something rotten, turning it into a salty soup. The family politely choked it down, stifling giggles, and we ended up ordering fish and chips from the Bear Hotel to save the day. Lesson learned: stick to pubs when you’re on holiday.

Evenings blurred into more gastronomic adventures. The Three Horseshoes down in the town did a cracking Sunday roast – golden Yorkshire puds the size of hubcaps, roasties that didn’t need ketchup (high praise), and gravy so rich it was practically a hug in liquid form. One night, we tried our hand at a barbecue on the terrace, views stretching out as the sun dipped behind the hills. Market-bought ribeye steaks sizzled away, but the wind played havoc, sending smoke signals everywhere. Still, paired with crusty bread and a cheeky bottle of Welsh red from the offie, it was bliss.

Reflecting on it now, as we packed up, I realised it wasn’t just the meals that fed us – it was the shared chaos, the laughter over my cooking flops, the way food wove us tighter as a family. Crickhowell’s pubs and markets turned our hillside haven into a proper feast fest. We’re already plotting a return – next time, I’m booking a cookery class first.