I’d just about had it with the sat-nav by the time I pulled up to Clifton Elegance Lodge 3, after a cheeky detour that sent me looping round Cheddar’s twisty lanes like a lost lamb. Picture this: I’m trundling down from Bristol on a drizzly Somerset afternoon, dreaming of cream teas, when the bloody thing decides to reroute me through some farmer’s field track. Fifteen minutes of reversing past bemused cows later, I spot the lodge nestled in that quiet corner near Cheddar, all cosy timber and welcoming lights. It’s the perfect bolthole for a three-day nosh-fest, and boy, did the first impressions deliver on the grub front.

Stumbling in with my bags – and a carrier of emergency pork scratchings from the services – I was hit by the lodge’s charm straight away. Compact but cracking, with a kitchen that screamed “get cooking, you lazy sod.” First job: unpack the Waitrose haul I’d nabbed en route from their Cheddar store, just a hop away. Local cheddar, obviously – crumbly and sharp as a tack – plus some Somerset Brie that was softer than my resolve after a long drive. I rustled up a hasty ploughman’s for arrival: thick slices of ham from the nearby market stall (popped in quick before check-in), doorstep bread, Branston pickle, and that cheese melting under the grill. Sat at the little dining nook overlooking the garden, it felt like proper home-from-home luxury. The place had all the kit – sharp knives, decent pans – none of that holiday-let tat that leaves you faffing with blunt blades.

Hunger barely sated, I fancied a proper pub crawl to bed in the vibes. A ten-minute wander took me to The White Hart in Cheddar, a proper Somerset boozer with beams low enough to duck and ales pulled from pumps that hadn’t changed since the ’70s. First pint: Butcombe Cheddar Potholer, malty and spot-on local. Their pie of the day was a revelation – steak and ale in flaky pastry, chips fat and golden, with mushy peas that transported me back to Nana’s kitchen. I demolished it solo at a corner table, eavesdropping on locals nattering about the Gorge’s climbers. Light humour in the air too: the barman joked my “holiday stubble” made me look like I’d been scrumping apples in the orchards. Back at the lodge by dusk, I cracked open a cider – Thatchers Gold from the offy round the corner – and pondered the stove again. Attempted a Somerset fry-up twist for brekkie prep: local sausages sizzling, bacon rashers from the butcher’s counter at Cheddar’s market, black pudding that punched with flavour, and eggs begging to be poached. Managed to char the toast slightly, mind – classic me, all enthusiasm, no finesse.

Next morning, it was market o’clock. Cheddar’s weekend vibe is pure gold for foodies; stalls heaving with farm-fresh goodies within shouting distance of the lodge. I loaded up on artisan bread studded with cheddar chunks, jars of local honeycomb, and pork pies that were crimped to perfection. Back for elevenses, slathered the lot with clotted cream from a dairy just up the road – thick, golden, and indulgent enough to make you forget the calories. Lunch was a heroic effort: cobbled together a rarebit with that Brie melted over toast, topped with crispy bacon bits and a chutney I’d impulse-bought. Ate it on the patio, sun peeking through, feeling a rare moment of smug self-sufficiency. Who needs Michelin stars when you’ve got a lodge kitchen like this?

Evening called for The Cheddar Valley, another gem five minutes away, where the fish and chips came wrapped in yesterday’s news (well, almost), vinegar sharp and batter crunching like it should. Paired with a pint of Exmoor Beast, it was the ideal unwind. Lingering over the last chips, I had a gentle think – amid all this feasting, it’s easy to forget how a simple plate of local scoff grounds you. No airs, no fuss, just Somerset’s bounty turning a rainy getaway into pure joy. Clifton Elegance Lodge 3? First impressions nailed it – especially if you’re here to eat your way through the best three days ever.