I’ll never forget the drive to Hops Cottage near Ashbourne in Derbyshire – a proper faff from the start. I’d packed the car with enough grub for a siege: cheeses from the local market, a slab of Derbyshire oatcake, and a bottle of that sharp Ashbourne ale I’d nabbed earlier. But halfway up the winding lanes, past those drystone walls, the satnav decided to throw a wobbly. “Recalculating,” it chirped, as I ended up in a muddy farm track, swearing like a trooper while a sheep gave me the side-eye. Classic me – always biting off more than I can chew, even on a simple three-day jaunt. Fifteen minutes later, I finally spotted the cottage’s thatched roof peeking through the trees, and all was forgiven.

Pulling up to Hops Cottage felt like stumbling into a hug from an old mate. It’s this cosy stone bolthole right in the heart of the Derbyshire Dales, just a hop (pun intended) from Ashbourne’s buzz. The owner, a cheery chap called Mike, handed over the keys with a grin and a tip: “Pub’s five minutes down the road, and the market’s on tomorrow – don’t miss the pork pies.” I dumped my bags and cracked open that ale straight away, sinking into the squishy sofa by the Aga. First impressions? Pure bliss. The kitchen’s a dream for a food-obsessed numpty like me – flagstone floors, a Belfast sink, and cupboards stocked with herbs from the garden. I rustled up a hasty tea of local cheddar on oatcakes, slathered with pickle, while the sun dipped behind the hills. Simple, but it hit the spot after that drive.

Next morning, I legged it to Ashbourne’s market square – it’s only a mile or so, past babbling brooks and those classic Peak District views that make you feel properly alive. The stalls were heaving with Derbyshire gold: venison sausages from the butcher, jars of tangy chutney, and fresh-baked tattie scones that smelled like heaven. I loaded up on smoked trout from the fishmonger (caught in local rivers, they swore), a hunk of Stilton that could knock you out, and some rhubarb from a veg patch down the lane. Back at the cottage, I fancied myself a proper chef. Fired up the Aga, attempted a trout bake with potatoes and herbs – but blimey, I overdid the garlic and it came out more vampire-repellent than gourmet. Laughed my socks off eating it on the patio, the cottage’s garden alive with bees and birdsong. Lesson learned: stick to what you know, eh? There’s a quiet satisfaction in faffing about in your own little kitchen haven, isn’t there? Makes you realise how much joy there is in simple, home-cooked muck-ups.

By lunchtime, hunger drove me to The Green Man, the nearest pub – a five-minute stroll through lanes lined with wildflowers. It’s the quintessential Derbyshire boozer: low beams, roaring fire, and punters supping pints of Marston’s Pedigree. I went for the pie of the day – steak and ale, flaky pastry crumbling into gravy that tasted of proper home. Washed it down with a local IPA, chatting with locals about the best spots for a Sunday roast. “Stay clear of the tourists,” one winked, “head to The Izaak Walton for their game pie next time.” Back at Hops Cottage, I brewed tea in the Rayburn and grazed on market spoils: oatcakes with ham hock, a cheeky slice of pie for pudding. The cottage’s nook by the window was perfect, overlooking meadows where cows chewed the cud lazily.

Evening rolled in, and I couldn’t resist another pub crawl – well, more of a gentle amble. The White Hart down the road does a cracking ploughman’s: crumbly cheese, crusty bread, and Branston that’s just right. Sat outside under fairy lights, reflecting on how this wee cottage has me hooked already. No fancy restaurants, just hearty Derbyshire fare fuelling lazy chats and daft cooking experiments. First impressions of Hops Cottage? It’s a foodie’s nirvana, wrapped in stone and charm. Can’t wait to devour more tomorrow.