I’ll never forget the drive to Exclusive Lodge 3 Bed Ht in Wiltshire – a proper faff from the moment we hit the A303. We’d packed the car with enough grub for a siege: cheeses from a farm shop near Salisbury, crusty loaves, and a bottle of local cider that I swore would “settle the nerves.” But five minutes from the turning, disaster struck – or rather, spillage. My other half, ever the optimist, knocked over a bag of ripe tomatoes in the boot, turning it into a pulpy crime scene. “Bloody hell, that’s our dinner ruined!” I groaned, pulling over to mop up with an old tea towel. Laughing through the chaos, we arrived at the lodge just as the sun dipped low over the rolling fields, both starving and smelling faintly of gazpacho.

First impressions? Blimey, what a gem. Tucked away in that peaceful spot near Salisbury, the Exclusive Lodge is one of those hot tub havens that screams “get away from it all.” Three cosy bedrooms, all done up with that Scandi-chic vibe – plush throws, wooden beams, and a kitchen that looked like it meant business. We dumped our bags and beelined for the nearest pub, The Haunch of Venison, a proper Wiltshire boozer just a short stroll away. It’s been slinging pints since 1320, they say, and the locals were straight in with the banter: “You lot from up country? Try the pie.” We did. Oh, did we. A towering beef and ale number, flaky pastry collapsing under its own weight, paired with chips that were more like golden wedges of joy. Washed down with a pint of Wadworth’s 6X – smooth, malty, and just hoppy enough to cut through the richness. Sat there by the flickering fire, bellies full, I felt that first holiday glow. “This,” I thought, “is why we do it.”

Back at the lodge, the hot tub was calling, but food first – always food. We’d salvaged enough from the tomato massacre for a cheeky pasta attempt. I fancied myself as a Jamie Oliver type, chopping garlic and tossing in chorizo from the market stall we’d spotted en route (Salisbury’s market on Tuesdays is a must – fresh baps, artisan sausages, and cheeses that could make you weep). But my “rustic sauce” turned into a lumpy disaster; too much wine deglazed the pan into oblivion. “It’s fusion cuisine!” I quipped, serving it up with a grin. We devoured it anyway, giggling over the hot tub bubbles, steam rising as the stars popped out. That self-reflection hit me then – amid the laughter and the mild indigestion – how often do we rush through life without these simple, messy meals? Here, in this lodge with its fairy lights twinkling, it felt like time to savour the slop-ups as much as the successes.

Next morning, breakfast was non-negotiable: frying up bacon and eggs from the local butcher’s (Wyvern Butchers, if you’re taking notes – their sausages are legendary). The lodge kitchen had every gadget – cafetière for strong coffee, Aga-style hob for that perfect sizzle. We ate on the deck, watching mist lift off the fields, planning a pub crawl disguised as culture. Lunch was at The New Inn, another gem within easy reach – ploughman’s with mature cheddar sharp enough to wake the dead, pickled onions that crunched like fireworks, and a side of doorstop bread slathered in butter. Washed it down with a crisp Sauvignon from the Marlborough lot, surprisingly good value. Back for elevenses (leftover pie, naturally), then an afternoon faff in the kitchen trying pork belly from the market. Slow-roasted with honey and mustard – my attempt was passable, though the crackling could’ve shattered teeth. “Close enough,” we toasted with more cider, slipping into the hot tub as the sun set again.

By evening, we hit The Chapter House for fish and chips – proper, beer-battered cod the size of a house brick, mushy peas on the side, and tartare sauce that elevated it to heaven. Pub chatter flowed: farmers moaning about the weather, us chiming in with our tomato tale. Laughter echoed as we staggered back, full to bursting. Those first 24 hours at Exclusive Lodge weren’t about grand adventures – they were about the feast of it all: mishaps in the kitchen, market hauls, pub plates piled high. It’s the kind of stay that reminds you food isn’t just fuel; it’s the heartbeat of a proper Wiltshire getaway. If you’re after that, book it – just secure your tomatoes first.