I’d just about had it with the sat-nav when it decided to send me down a narrow Somerset lane that looked more like a goat track than a road to Cheddar. Picture this: me, white-knuckling the steering wheel of my trusty old Fiesta, dodging hedgerows thick with blackberries, all while swearing under my breath at the disembodied voice chirping “recalculating”. It was a proper daft mishap – turned out I’d fat-fingered “Cheddar Gorge” instead of Strawberryfield Park, but hey, it added a bit of unintended adventure to my three-day jaunt to Amber Lodge. By the time I pulled up to the lodge, sweatier than a pork pie in a hot oven, I was starving and ready for whatever culinary delights this corner of Somerset had in store.

Amber Lodge is one of those cracking little holiday lets tucked into Strawberryfield Park, right on the edge of Cheddar village. First impressions? Bliss. It’s a cosy two-bedroom affair with a proper homely vibe – think exposed beams, a squishy sofa begging for a collapse, and a kitchen that’s kitted out better than my own at home. But let’s be honest, I wasn’t there for the decor; I was there to eat my way through Somerset’s finest. Unpacked in ten minutes flat, I raided the fridge (stocked with milk and butter from the park’s welcome pack) and headed straight out for provisions. Cheddar’s just a hop away, and their local market on the high street was calling my name like a siren with a pasty.

First stop: the village shop for essentials. I grabbed a slab of mature Cheddar – obviously, it’d be criminal not to – along with some smoked bacon from a nearby farm stall and a punnet of strawberries so ripe they practically burst in my hand. Back at the lodge, my grand cooking attempt kicked off with a bang. Or rather, a splutter. I fancied a proper Somerset fry-up: bacon sizzling in the cast-iron pan, eggs from the park’s honesty box (what a gem), and thick slices of that cheese melted on toast. But in my enthusiasm, I cranked the hob too high and set off the smoke alarm. Cue me flapping a tea towel like a demented pigeon, laughing at my own incompetence. “Chef of the year, this is not,” I muttered, but salvaged it into a gloriously greasy plate that hit the spot after that daft drive.

Lunch was a cheeky picnic on the lodge’s private patio, overlooking the park’s rolling fields. I’d nipped to the market for crusty bread, local ham, and a jar of tangy ploughman’s pickle. Paired with more of that Cheddar – crumbly, sharp, and miles better than anything supermarket – it was pure heaven under the Somerset sun. The air smelled of cut grass and wildflowers, and for a moment, I just sat there, munching away, feeling a proper twit for how stressed I’d been back home. Why don’t we do this more often? That gentle nudge of self-reflection washed over me like a pint of cider – life’s too short not to savour the simple stuff.

Evening called for the pub, and Cheddar’s got a belter in The White Hart, just a ten-minute stroll. First impressions there? Packed with locals nursing pints of Butcombe ale, the kind of place where the barman knows your order before you’ve sat down. I went for the Somerset platter: pork scratchings, cheese straws, and a hunk of Blue Vinny – that marbled local legend with a kick like a feisty donkey. Followed it with fish and chips, battered to perfection with mushy peas on the side. Washed down with a cheeky local cider, sharp and fizzy, it was the ideal end to day one. Back at Amber Lodge, I collapsed into bed stuffed and satisfied, dreaming of tomorrow’s breakfast.

Day two’s market haul upped the ante – fresh scones, clotted cream from a dairy just outside the village, and strawberry jam that tasted like summer in a jar. My cooking attempt? Devonshire cream tea, Somerset-style. Slathered it on thick in the lodge’s sunny conservatory, crumbs everywhere, feeling like a right posh sort. Pub lunch at The King’s Head nearby was next: a ploughman’s lunch piled high with ham, cheese, and pickled onions, plus a side of chips that could feed a family. Evening? Back to The White Hart for venison pie, rich and hearty, with a pint of Exmoor Gold to match.

By day three’s brekkie – my pièce de résistance of bacon butties with fried eggs and a dollop of market-bought chutney – I was hooked. Amber Lodge isn’t just a stay; it’s a launchpad for Somerset’s foodie soul. Those first impressions of mishaps, markets, and magnificent meals? They’ve got me plotting a return already.