I’d barely made it out of London on that drizzly Friday morning when the mishap struck – my sat-nav decided to have a mid-journey sulk just past Ipswich, rerouting me down a narrow Suffolk lane that looked more like a sheep track. Twenty minutes of reversing around blind corners later, I finally trundled into Woodbridge, heart thumping, but grinning at the absurdity. Thank goodness for the promise of The Shepherd’s Hut at Anvil House ahead – a cosy bolthole I’d booked for a three-day escape, right on the edge of this charming town.

Pulling up to Anvil House, I was smitten straight away. Tucked behind the main property, the hut itself is a proper gem: a snug wooden pod with a veranda overlooking a wild garden that screams Suffolk serenity. It’s compact but clever – double bed piled high with crisp duvets, a teeny kitchenette gleaming with essentials, and a wood-burner ready to roar. First impressions? Pure bliss. No traffic hum, just birdsong and the faint tang of woodsmoke. I dumped my bags, cracked open a window, and thought, right, priorities: food. This wasn’t going to be a carb-free weekend.

Woodbridge’s market square was my first port of call, a five-minute wander away. It’s the real deal on Saturdays – stalls groaning under fresh Suffolk produce. I nabbed a punnet of plump strawberries that tasted like summer in a bite, a wedge of tangy Alderton cheese from a local dairy, and some crusty sourdough that still had that warm-bakery scent. The stallholders were proper friendly, chatting about the harvest like old mates. Loaded up, I headed back to the hut for my inaugural cooking attempt. Now, I’m no Jamie Oliver – more like a hopeful Gordon Ramsay impersonator minus the swearing – but with the hut’s two-ring hob and that brilliant little oven, I rustled up a ploughman’s lunch fit for a king. Cheese melting into the bread, strawberries for pud. Sat on the veranda with a flask of tea from the welcome pack (proper builder’s brew, thank you), I gazed at the garden and had one of those gentle moments: when did I last switch off like this? City life’s relentless; Suffolk’s already mending me.

Evening called for a pub crawl – or waddle, given the feast. The Crown, just down the road in Woodbridge, was first. It’s a classic: low beams, roaring fire, and locals propping up the bar with pints of Adnams Ghost Ship (Suffolk’s finest, crisp and citrusy). I went for fish and chips – golden batter, fat chips, mushy peas that hit the spot. Overheard a table debating the best local oysters; made a mental note. Back at the hut, stuffed and merry, I lit the wood-burner and pondered tomorrow’s breakfast. The hut’s stocked with basics, but I’d spotted The Buttery bakery en route – famed for their sausage rolls. First impressions of self-sufficiency? Failing hilariously. I tried making scrambled eggs the next morning, but they turned into a rubbery scramble. Chuckled at my reflection in the kettle: mate, stick to markets.

Day two ramped up the eats. Back to the market for smoked mackerel from Orford (hailed as Suffolk’s smokiest), fresh eggs, and a jar of chutney that could wake the dead. Lunch was a smoky salad on the veranda – mackerel flaking over leaves, with that cheese from yesterday. Pub number two: The King’s Head, another Woodbridge staple, mere minutes away. Sunday roast heaven – crackling pork belly, Yorkshire puds like clouds, gravy so rich it was criminal. I nursed an Adnams Broadside, eavesdropping on villagers swapping recipes. Hut life interspersed it all: brewing coffee on the hob, nibbling cheese by the fire, reflecting on how these simple meals taste worlds better out here. No rush, no apps ordering in – just real food, real flavours.

By Monday’s departure, my first impressions were sealed: The Shepherd’s Hut is foodie nirvana disguised as a getaway. Mishaps forgotten, belly full from markets and pubs, I drove off pondering a return. Suffolk’s fed my soul – and everything else.