I’d just about had it with the M5 when the satnav decided to throw a wobbly. There I was, trundling down from Bristol towards Somerset, dreaming of a cosy cottage escape at Fox Run Lodge near Bridgwater, when the bloody thing rerouted me through some nameless B-road lined with cows eyeing me suspiciously. A minor detour, sure – lost ten minutes and picked up a smattering of mud on the tyres – but it felt like the universe’s way of saying, “Slow down, mate, you’re on holiday.” By the time I pulled up to the lodge, that insignificant flap had me chuckling, keys in hand and stomach rumbling for proper Somerset grub.

Fox Run Lodge is a proper gem, tucked away in Sedgemoor countryside, all honey-stone charm and thatched roof vibes. First impressions? Bliss. Stepped inside to a kitchen that screamed “home-cooked feasts await,” with a Rayburn cooker begging to be fired up and a larder stocked with basics. No faffing about – I unpacked my cool bag of local treats I’d nabbed from Bridgwater Farmers’ Market on the way (a cheeky stop-off five minutes down the road). Somerset’s markets are legendary for their cider apples, cheeses, and pies, and this one didn’t disappoint: a hunk of tangy Somerset Brie, some smoked ham from nearby farms, and a loaf of crusty bread still warm from the oven. First meal sorted, or so I thought.

Unpacked, kettle on, and I’m slicing into that Brie with a view of rolling fields through the window. But oh, the comedy of errors – I’m no Gordon Ramsay. Tried knocking up a simple ploughman’s lunch: cheese, ham, pickle, apple slices. Simple, right? Wrong. The mustard was too fiery (local stuff, mind, from a Sedgemoor producer), and I slathered it on like a fool, turning my innocent sarnie into a nasal inferno. Watered eyes, coughing fit, laughing at myself in the mirror. “Day one, and you’re already bested by Branston,” I muttered. Still, sat at that scrubbed oak table with a cuppa, it tasted of victory. Somerset air does that – makes even your botched efforts feel gourmet.

Afternoon hunger hit hard, so I wandered to the nearby King’s Head in North Petherton, a classic Somerset pub just a couple of miles off. Proper boozer, low beams you have to duck (nearly clocked my noggin), and a fire crackling away. First pint? A pint of Exmoor Ale, crisp and malty, straight from the county’s heart. They do a cracking ham, egg, and chips – golden fries, local eggs with yolks like sunsets, and ham so tender it flaked with a fork. Devoured it while chatting with locals about the best cider presses (turns out, there’s one round the corner in Durleigh). No chain nonsense here; it’s the sort of place where the landlord remembers your name by round two.

Back at the lodge by dusk, first impressions sealed with a self-cooked supper. Fired up the Rayburn (after a YouTube panic, naturally) for a Somerset stew: chunks of lamb from the market, carrots, spuds, and a splash of scrumpy cider for depth. It bubbled away merrily, filling the cottage with that hearty, homely fug. Pared it with more of that crusty bread, a wedge of vintage Cheddar (Cheddar Valley’s finest, naturally), and a glass of Thatchers Gold. Sat by the window as the sun dipped, fork in hand, and had a proper moment. Here I was, three days of this ahead, but already reflecting: city life’s rush had me forgetting how a simple meal, mucked up or not, grounds you. No emails, no deadlines – just food, firelight, and the faint low of cattle outside.

Honestly, that first day at Fox Run Lodge redefined “holiday eats” for me. From market hauls to pub perfection and my own ham-fisted triumphs, Somerset’s food scene wrapped around me like a warm pasty. Can’t wait to see what day two brings.