I finally made it to Wedmore after a bit of a faff on the drive down from Bristol. I'd taken a wrong turn near Cheddar – nothing major, just ended up looping through some narrow lanes with cows eyeing me suspiciously from the hedges – but it added a good half-hour to the journey. Still, pulling up to the cottage in this sleepy Somerset village felt like slipping into a warm bath. Wedmore's one of those proper chocolate-box spots: honey-stone cottages huddled around a village green, with the odd thatched roof throwing cheeky waves. My place was a cosy two-up-two-down, all beams and quirky angles, right in the heart of it. First impressions? Bliss. I dumped my bags, cracked open a window, and inhaled that fresh, earthy air laced with a hint of woodsmoke.

Right, priorities: food. I'd stocked up on the way with basics from a Cheddar farm shop – local cheddar (obviously), crusty bread, and a slab of Somerset Brie that was already begging to be devoured. But Wedmore's got its own rhythm for nosh, and I was straight into it. Unpacked, kettle on for a proper builder's brew, then I wandered five minutes down the lane to the village shop. It's a gem, that Wedmore Village Stores – shelves groaning under pasties, pork pies, and jars of local honey. I grabbed eggs from nearby free-range hens, rashers of smoked bacon from a Sedgemoor butcher, and some scrumpy cider vinegar for good measure. Back at the cottage, my first "cooking attempt" was a heroic fry-up. Heroic because the ancient hob decided to play hard to get; one ring conked out midway, leaving my bacon swimming in fat while the eggs stuck like glue. Laughed at myself in the mirror, spatula in hand, thinking, "This is why I don't do MasterChef." Managed to salvage it with toast and a dollop of that Brie melted on top. Sat at the little kitchen table overlooking the green, cider in hand (non-alcoholic for brekkie, mind), and it tasted like victory.

Lunch called for pub action. Wedmore's got two cracking ones within spitting distance. I plumped for The George first – it's the oldest, all low ceilings and flagstone floors, with punters nursing pints of Butcombe ale. Settled in a corner with a pint of their golden ale, which went down like liquid sunshine, and ordered a Ploughman's that could feed a family. Mature cheddar (Cheddar Gorge stuff, sharp as a tack), pickled onions the size of golf balls, and bread so fresh it steamed. The landlady chatted about the village fete coming up, recommending their Sunday roasts. I was hooked. Afternoon snack? Back to the shop for a sausage roll – flaky pastry, juicy pork with a kick of herbs – eaten on a bench by the duck pond. Pure Somerset idyll.

Evening ramped up the indulgence. Fired up the cottage's wee oven for a stab at cider-braised pork belly, using chops from the shop and a bottle of Thatchers Gold I'd snaffled. It wasn't pretty – a bit of smoke alarm action thanks to overzealous timing – but paired with roasted roots and apple sauce, it was spot on. Washing it down with a proper pint at The Swan afterwards, where the barman pulled a perfect round of Exmoor Fox. Their fish pie special was tempting, but I was stuffed from my efforts. Chatted with locals about the best spots for cream teas (spoiler: everywhere does a belter).

As I wandered back under starry skies, pint-glazed and content, I had a quiet moment by the cottage door. Here I was, city lad turned temporary Somerset foodie, faffing over hobs and hailing cheese like a pro. It's the simple stuff – a village that feeds your soul as much as your belly – that makes you realise life's too short for rubbish meals. Can't wait to return for round two.