I finally arrived at Avon Forest Lodge in the Forest of Dean after a bit of a faff on the journey down from the Midlands. I'd taken the scenic route through the winding lanes, dodging the odd tractor, when disaster struck – my sat-nav decided to have a midlife crisis and guided me straight into a massive pothole just outside Coleford. Splash! My thermos of tea went flying, leaving me with soggy trousers and a soggy mood. Still, as I pulled up to the lodge, nestled in that quiet pocket of woodland off the beaten track, the mishap felt like a distant memory. The place looked proper inviting – a cosy timber lodge with a veranda overlooking a babbling brook, perfect for a three-day escape focused on nothing but good grub and unwinding.

First impressions? Bliss. I unloaded my bags, stocked up from the fridge basics they'd left (milk, butter, a cheeky bottle of local cider), and immediately fancied cooking something hearty. The kitchen was a dream – compact but kitted out with everything a foodie needs, from a solid Aga-style cooker to proper chopping boards. No faffing about with dodgy electrics here. I nipped to the nearby Coleford market, just a couple of miles away, where the stalls were groaning under the weight of Forest of Dean goodies. Fresh venison from local hunters, plump mushrooms foraged that morning, artisan cheeses from Symonds Yat, and crusty loaves from the bakery van. I grabbed a haul: sausages from free-range pigs, a slab of smoked trout, and some wild garlic pesto that smelled like spring in a jar. Bargain prices too – under a tenner for enough to feed a small army.

Back at the lodge, my first cooking attempt was ambitious: a venison casserole. Now, I'm no MasterChef, but with the lodge's herbs from the window sill and a splash of that cider, it bubbled away nicely. The aroma wafted through the trees, drawing in the birds – or maybe that was wishful thinking. Sat out on the veranda as the sun dipped, tucking into it with a side of buttered veg from the market. Proper lush, though I did burn the edges a tad. Laughing at my own efforts, I reflected on how often I rush meals back home – this slow simmer felt like therapy, a gentle nudge to savour the simple things amid the forest hush.

Evening called for a pub crawl, Forest of Dean style – starting close to home. The first stop was the little alehouse in Scowles, barely three miles away, where the locals were supping pints of Wye Valley ale. I went for their ploughman's: thick-cut ham, tangy cheddar, pickle that packed a punch, and fresh bread that stuck to your ribs. Chatty barman recommended the Forest pork scratchings – crispy, moreish devils that had me hooked. Back at the lodge, I rustled up brekkie the next morning using market eggs and bacon: a full English on the veranda, fried in the lodge's cast-iron pan. The yolks ran golden, and with a mug of builder's tea overlooking the woods, it was perfection. Light humour in the mishap of flipping a rasher onto the floor – daft dog impression required to retrieve it.

Day two's highlight was lunch at a cosy tearoom in Clearwell, all of five minutes' drive. Their cream tea was legendary – scones still warm, clotted cream thicker than my accent, and jam from local berries. I paired it with a Forest of Dean beef pasty, flaky pastry enclosing melt-in-mouth steak. Tempted to try baking scones myself that afternoon, but settled for cheese on toast with that smoked trout, experimenting with the lodge's toaster oven. It worked a treat, and munching by the brook, I had a quiet moment of self-reflection: amid the feast, I realised how food grounds you, turning a stranger's lodge into home turf, one bite at a time.

By the end of those first impressions, Avon Forest Lodge had me smitten – a haven where every meal told a story of the Dean's bounty, mishaps and all.