I finally made it to Charterhouse in Strawberryfield Park near Cheddar after a bit of a faff on the drive down from Bristol. I'd taken a wrong turn somewhere near the Mendips, ending up in a narrow lane with hedges taller than my car, convinced I was about to meet a herd of cows head-on. Nothing dramatic – just me swearing at the satnav and arriving 20 minutes late, cheeks flushed, but hey, that's the joy of Somerset's winding roads, innit?

Pulling into the park, I was chuffed to bits. Charterhouse is this cosy little static caravan – proper home from home, with a well-equipped kitchen that screamed "cook up a storm" and a patio overlooking the rolling hills. First impressions? Spot on for a solo three-day getaway. I dumped my bags, cracked open a tin of cider from the boot (local stuff from Cheddar Valley, naturally), and got stuck into planning meals. No faffing about with grand hikes; this trip was all about the grub, the pubs, and maybe a dodgy attempt at Somerset cooking.

Unpacked, I nipped out to the village shop not five minutes away – a proper old-school affair with wonky shelves of pasties, cheeses, and clotted cream. Cheddar's famous for its gorge, but the real stars are the truckles of cheese right here. I grabbed a hunk of mature Cheddar, some smoked bacon, fresh bread, and a punnet of strawberries that were so ripe they were practically bursting. Back at Charterhouse, lunch was a no-brainer: a ploughman's on the patio. Thick slabs of cheese melting into crusty bread, tangy pickle on the side, washed down with that cider. The sun was beating down, bees buzzing about the wildflowers, and I thought, "This is living." Simple, satisfying, and zero calories counted.

Afternoon called for a pub crawl – well, more of a gentle amble to the two cracking locals within spitting distance. First stop, the Cheddar Cave, a proper free house with beams low enough to duck and a beer garden spilling onto the green. I plumped for a pint of Butcombe Bitter, golden and malty, and their cheese ploughman's special – because why not double down? The landlord, a cheery chap called Mike, reckoned the local cheese was best paired with their homemade chutney. Spot on; it was a flavour bomb. Chatted to a couple of regulars about the strawberry fields nearby (hence the park's name, I s'pose), and they tipped me off on the evening's pie night.

Back at the caravan, I fancied playing chef. Kitchen was a dream – gas hob, full oven, even a slow cooker. Armed with bacon, eggs from the shop, and some black pudding I'd snaffled up, I attempted a full Somerset fry-up. Big mistake on the black pudding; I overdid it, turning it into a charred brick. Laughed my socks off scraping the pan, but salvaged it with fried bread and a dollop of clotted cream on the side (don't judge – it works!). Ate it outside as the light faded over the Mendips, feeling a proper numpty but chuffed with the effort. Who needs Michelin stars when you've got trial-and-error telly dinners?

Evening meant pub number two: the Strawberry Inn, just a stagger away, with its fairy lights and cider press out front. Proper Somerset scrumpy on tap – sharp, fizzy, and packs a punch. I went for the fish pie, creamy mash piled high with smoked haddock and a Cheddar crust. Divine. Puds were a dilemma: sticky toffee or the strawberry Eton mess? Mess won, obvs – local berries, meringue, cream. Overindulged, but worth every crumb.

As I waddled back to Charterhouse under the stars, belly full and head fuzzy, I had a quiet moment on the patio. Staring at the dark silhouette of the hills, pint glass in hand, I reflected on how these simple eats – cheese, cider, pies – ground me. In the rush of life, we forget the joy of a proper plate and a friendly boozer. First day in, and Somerset had me hooked. Can't wait for brekkie tomorrow.