I’ll never forget the drive to Elkstone Lodge in the Peak District – a proper British road trip comedy of errors. We’d set off from Ashbourne early, bellies rumbling after a greasy spoon brekkie of bacon butties and builder’s tea, only for me to realise halfway there that I’d forgotten the cool bag with our posh picnic supplies. No biggie, I thought, we’re in Derbyshire Dales; there’d be a farm shop or something round the next bend. But no, the SatNav decided to play silly buggers, sending us down a single-track lane that narrowed into a sheep-infested nightmare. One woolly bugger stared me down as if to say, “Oi, mate, this ain’t the way to luxury.” We laughed it off, windows down, inhaling that fresh Peak District air laced with manure and promise.

Finally rolling up to Elkstone Lodge just outside Ashbourne, my first impression was pure gobsmacked joy. Tucked in a peaceful spot with those classic Dales views – rolling hills, drystone walls, and not a soul in sight – it’s the sort of place that makes you exhale all the city stress. The lodge itself is a cosy stone beauty, all welcoming with its wood-beamed porch and that faint whiff of woodsmoke from the chiminea outside. We dumped the bags and beelined for the kitchen, hearts set on christening the Aga with our first feast.

That kitchen, mind – it’s a dream for foodies like us. Proper farmhouse vibes with a massive oak table, stocked herb pots on the windowsill, and every gadget you’d need for a slap-up meal. We’d planned to keep it simple for arrival day: local grub only. First stop was the nearby Ashbourne market, just a cheeky five-minute drive. Blimey, what a treasure trove! Stalls heaving with Derbyshire cheeses – crumbly, tangy Stilton that melts in your mouth – fat pork pies still warm from the baker, and jars of chutney that screamed “pair me with a ploughman’s.” I nabbed a wedge of Mrs Kirkham’s Lancashire, some crusty sourdough, and a punnet of raspberries plump as you like. Bargain at a fiver for the lot.

Back at the lodge, cooking kicked off with a minor disaster – my attempt at a fancy cheese soufflé flopped like a sad pancake, all because I got cocky with the Aga’s quirks. “It’s not you, it’s the oven,” I joked to my other half, scraping the gooey mess into the bin. We salvaged it with a rip-roaring ploughman’s lunch instead: thick slices of that cheese, pickled onions sharp enough to wake the dead, and a cheeky apple from the lodge’s own tree outside. Washed down with a bottle of local Peak Ales from the offie in Ashbourne – crisp, malty Derventio Gold that hits just right on a sunny afternoon. Sat at that table overlooking the garden, we proper tucked in, crumbs everywhere, feeling like kings of our own little kingdom.

Evening called for pub grub, naturally. The George and Dragon, a stone’s throw away in Ashbourne, didn’t disappoint. Proper Peak District boozer: low beams you bang your head on (lesson learned), roaring fire, and locals nursing pints of Marston’s Pedigree. We demolished plates of beer-battered haddock – flaky, golden perfection – with mushy peas and chunky chips, followed by sticky toffee pudding so gooey it required a spoon shovel. “Two pints of that, ta,” I grinned to the barman, who chuckled about my “southern accent” (cheeky sod). Laughter flowed as freely as the ale, swapping stories with a table of ramblers about the best pie spots in the Dales.

As we stumbled back to Elkstone under a starry sky, bellies full and cheeks rosy, I had one of those quiet moments. Sat on the porch with a nightcap of local gin and tonic – juniper zing cutting through the sweetness – I reflected on how daft it is rushing through life back home. Here, with the simple joy of sourcing grub from markets, faffing in the kitchen, and propping up the bar, everything slows. Food’s not just fuel; it’s the heartbeat of the place. Elkstone Lodge nailed that first day – mishaps, masterpieces, and all. Can’t wait to fire up brekkie tomorrow.