I finally made it to Glastonbury Lodge after a bit of a faff on the drive down from Bristol. Picture this: I'm humming along the A38, dreaming of cream teas, when I realise I've left my phone charger at home. No biggie, I thought, Somerset's full of little shops. But then the sat-nav decides to play silly buggers, rerouting me through some winding lanes near Cheddar, turning a 45-minute jaunt into an hour of hedge-scraping stress. Still, as I pulled up to the lodge that golden afternoon, the sight of its cosy stone exterior nestled in the quiet Sedgemoor countryside made it all worthwhile. First impressions? Proper idyllic – a proper little retreat with a garden begging for a GandT at sunset.

Unpacking was a doddle, but my mind was straight on food. I'd stocked the boot with bits from a quick stop at the Cheddar Co-op – local cheddar (obviously), some plump Somerset Brie, and a loaf of that crusty bread they do there. The lodge kitchen was a gem: compact but kitted out with everything you'd need, from a solid Aga-style cooker to a fridge that hummed contentedly. My plan for day one was simple: settle in with a homemade ploughman's. I sliced up that cheddar, thick as my thumb, slapped it on with Branston pickle, and added some apple from the garden (hoping it wasn't poisoned – turned out lush). Paired with a cold Aspall cyder from the offy, it was pub grub without the sticky tables. Sat in the lounge overlooking the fields, munching away, I felt that holiday glow kick in.

Evening called for venturing out, and within a couple of miles, I hit The Somerset Arms – a cracking little local in the heart of Glastonbury's pub scene. It's one of those timeless boozers with low beams, a roaring fire, and punters who greet you like an old mate. I went for the pie of the day: steak and ale, proper flaky pastry, gravy so rich it could've mortgaged a house. Sides of mushy peas and chips, washed down with a pint of Butcombe ale – Somerset through and through. Chatting with the barman about the best spots for bacon sarnies (his tip: the market van by the abbey), I nearly missed last orders. Back at the lodge, stuffed and tipsy, I reflected gently on how these simple meals ground you. In the rush of life, we forget the joy of a good feed – no Instagram filters needed.

Day two kicked off with a market run. Glastonbury's Saturday market is a foodie's dream, just a stone's throw away – stalls groaning under fresh pasties, local honey, and veg so vibrant it hurts your eyes. I nabbed some smoked mackerel from a fisherman's pitch, rashers of bacon from the butcher, and a punnet of strawberries that tasted like summer in a bowl. Back at the lodge, my cooking attempt was ambitious: a full Somerset fry-up. Sausages sizzling, eggs poaching (one burst, classic me), black pudding on the side. It was a triumph, mostly – served on the patio with tea strong enough to strip paint. Lunch was mackerel pâté on toast, whizzed up with cream cheese and a splash of lemon. Effortless, delicious, and zero faff.

By afternoon, peckish again, I wandered to a nearby café just down the lane – think cream sconces central. Jam first or cream first? I went Devon-style (clotted cream on top, obvs) and it was heavenly, with tea in a proper pot. Dinner that night? Another lodge special: cider-braised pork from market meat, slow-cooked till it fell apart, served with roasties and greens. Paired with a bottle of Sharps Doom Bar, it was chef-level if I say so myself. Laughing at my apron splattered like a Jackson Pollock, I pondered how these culinary adventures – mishaps and all – remind you to savour the now.

Come day three, breakfast was strawberry jam on toast, market bounty shining. First impressions of Glastonbury Lodge? It's a food haven disguised as a holiday let, where every meal tells a story of Somerset's bounty. Can't wait to go back.