I set off from Cardiff with the sat-nav promising a gentle hour-and-a-bit, but managed to miss the turning for the narrow lane that leads up to Salt and Fern, so I spent five flustered minutes reversing into a gateway while a tractor waited patiently behind me. When I finally pulled up outside Cabin No. 16, the low slate roof and soft wood cladding looked every bit as welcoming as the photos, and the smell of damp bracken drifting up from the field below made the whole place feel instantly homely.

The owners had left a little welcome basket on the kitchen table—fresh bread, local butter and a small pot of Welsh honey—so I unpacked my modest supplies, put the kettle on and started planning the next three days entirely around what I could eat. The fridge was tiny but perfectly sized for someone who wanted an excuse to shop every day, and I spent the first evening flicking through a dog-eared folder of handwritten notes from previous guests that recommended the butcher in the nearest village and a tiny bakery that still made bara brith on Fridays.

The next morning I wandered down the lane in search of breakfast and found a cheerful roadside stall selling eggs still warm from the hen. Back at the cabin I scrambled three of them in the battered pan that came with the place, buttered thick slices of the welcome loaf and sat on the little deck listening to the stream chuckle under the trees. By late morning I was already hungry again, so I drove the short distance to the weekly market in the square. Two long trestle tables groaned under wheels of Caerphilly, jars of pickled beetroot and bunches of early leeks; I bought a wedge of cheese, a bunch of parsley and some fat pork sausages for later.

Lunch was a simple affair back at the cabin: sausage sandwiches with a slick of brown sauce, eaten on the bench outside while a robin hopped along the railing hoping for crumbs. In the afternoon I tried my hand at making cawl in the slow cooker the owners had thoughtfully left out. I chopped leeks and carrots with more enthusiasm than skill, dropped in the lamb I’d picked up from the butcher and left it to bubble gently while I went for a short stroll along the footpath behind the cabins. When I came back the smell filled the whole room and I felt quietly proud, even if the broth was a little thin.

That evening I wandered down to the village pub, The Shepherd’s Rest, where the landlord greeted me like an old regular and pulled a pint of the local ale without asking what I wanted. The menu was short and reassuring: steak-and-ale pie with mash, or battered cod with chips. I chose the pie and it arrived steaming, the pastry properly crisp at the edges. Conversation drifted from rugby scores to the best place for laverbread, and before I knew it the evening had slipped away in the soft glow of the log burner.

The following day I woke early and decided to attempt Welsh cakes on the griddle pan. The recipe scrawled on a postcard above the hob looked straightforward, but my first batch came out slightly scorched on one side and pale on the other. Still, dusted with sugar and eaten warm with a second cup of tea, they tasted better than they looked. I wrapped the survivors in a tea towel and took them down to the little picnic table by the stream, where I sat watching midges dance over the water and wondering why it always takes me so long to slow down.

By the last morning the tiny kitchen felt almost familiar. I used up the last of the bread for cheese on toast, packed the remaining sausages for the drive home and stood for a moment on the deck, listening to the rain start to patter on the roof. Three days of markets, pies and modest cooking disasters had left me oddly content, and as I locked the cabin door I already knew I’d be back for another basket of bread and another pint at The Shepherd’s Rest.