I finally made it to Chatsworth Superior near Buxton after a bit of a faff on the drive from Manchester. Picture this: I'm trundling along the A6, windows down, classic FM on low, when I realise I've left my posh reusable coffee cup at a service station petrol pump. Daft, innit? No biggie, though – I grabbed a styrofoam one from the next stop and carried on, humming along to some Verdi overture, proper chuffed to be heading into Derbyshire's Peak District for three days of proper downtime.

Pulling up to the cottage that first afternoon, I was gobsmacked. Tucked just outside Buxton, it's this cracking stone-built beauty with a garden that screams "put your feet up." First impressions? Spot on. The owners had left a welcome pack on the kitchen table – fresh milk, bread, butter, and a cheeky bottle of local Buxton ale. I cracked that open straight away, sinking into the plush sofa with a view of the rolling hills. But let's be honest, the real star was the kitchen. Massive range cooker, all mod cons, and a larder stocked with basics. I was itching to get stuck in.

That first evening, I didn't fancy faffing about too much after the drive, so I wandered the five-minute stroll into Buxton town centre for grub. Popped into the Old Hall Hotel for a pint and a steak pie – proper job, with flaky pastry and gravy that could make you weep. The locals at the bar were dead friendly, chatting about the weather (as you do) and recommending the farmers' market on Pavilion Gardens the next morning. I supped my bitter slowly, savouring the chatter, and nipped back to the cottage stuffed and happy.

Next day kicked off with that market – what a treat! Stalls groaning under Derbyshire cheeses, artisan breads, and piles of fresh veg from nearby farms. I loaded up on a wedge of tangy Buxton Blue (smells like a wrestler's armpit but tastes divine), some smoked trout from the Wye Valley, crusty sourdough, and a punnet of local strawberries so ripe they burst in your mouth. Back at Chatsworth Superior, I rolled up my sleeves for my first cooking attempt. Thought I'd impress myself with a ploughman's lunch: cheese, trout pâté on toast, pickled onions from a jar, and a side of those berries with clotted cream from the welcome pack. It was a right mess – I slathered the pâté too thick and it slid off the bread like a greasy eel – but washed down with more of that Buxton ale, it hit the spot. Laughed at my own ham-fisted efforts in the mirror, thinking, "Blimey, Jamie Oliver I'm not."

Lunch settled, I fancied a proper pub crawl within spitting distance. The Cheshire Cheese, just down the road, was calling. Proper old-school boozer with beams low enough to clock your head if you're not careful (nearly did, the once). I went for fish and chips – haddock so fresh it could've swum off the plate, chips triple-cooked to crispy perfection, mushy peas on the side. Puddings? Sticky toffee with custard that was basically a hug in a bowl. Chatted with a couple from the next village about their shepherd's pie recipe; turns out it's all in the lamb stock simmered for hours. Inspired, I vowed to try it later, but for now, I waddled back to the cottage, belly full, plotting dinner.

Evening rolled in misty and cool, perfect for cosying up. My second culinary crack: a simple trout bake with market herbs, new potatoes boiled till fluffy, and a green salad. Burnt the edges a tad – rookie error on that range – but the flavours sang of Derbyshire. Paired it with a cheeky bottle of red from Buxton's indie offy, and as I sat at the window table watching the sun dip behind the hills, I had a proper moment. Here I was, miles from the daily grind, surrounded by good food and no rush. Made me reflect on how we rush through life without savouring the simple stuff – like a decent pie or a wonky home-cooked meal. Chatsworth Superior nailed those first impressions: a home-from-home where the eating's as good as the views. Can't wait to return for more.