I’ll never forget the drive to Blakeney – we’d set off from Norwich full of beans, sandwiches packed, but about halfway there, the satnav decided to have a midlife crisis and sent us down a narrow lane that was basically a tractor’s private runway. Mud everywhere, and my other half yelling about reversing into a ditch. We laughed it off in the end, emerging covered in Norfolk dust but buzzing with anticipation for our week in this gem of a coastal spot.

Pulling up to the house, my jaw dropped. It’s this cracking modern detached place, all brick and flint, with a massive south-facing garden that just begs for barbecues and a view out to sea that makes you forget the world. Five en-suite bedrooms meant no morning queues, perfect for our rabble of mates and kids. It’s a hop from the coastal path and the village quayside, but honestly, we barely left the garden some days – it was that tempting.

Food was the star of the show, no question. First morning, I fancied playing chef with local treats from Blakeney’s deli – fresh crab caught that day, plump tomatoes from a nearby farm stall, and crusty bread that smelled like heaven. I attempted a crab salad, but let’s just say it ended up more deconstructed than Gordon Ramsay would approve. Still, wolfed down in the garden with sea breezes, it tasted like summer. Lunch that day was at The White Horse pub, right in the village. Proper chippy fare: golden battered cod, mushy peas, and a pint of Adnams that slid down a treat. The kids demolished their fish fingers, and we adults snuck extra vinegar.

Evenings were for proper feasts. We nipped to Cley’s farm shop (just down the road) for Norfolk sausages, venison from the marshes, and cheeses that could make you weep. One night, I tried my hand at a seafood linguine using mussels from Morston’s quay – ambitious, right? The sauce was lush, garlicky and zesty, but I overseasoned it with chilli and spent the meal swigging white wine to cool my gob. Cue gentle ribbing from the group: “You’re no Jamie Oliver, mate!” We all howled, reflecting on how holidays like this remind you it’s the faffing about in the kitchen that makes memories, not perfection.

Pub crawls kept things lively too. The Blakeney Harbour Room did banging crab platters – sweet, fresh meat piled high with mayo and lemon, shared family-style. Another evening, we hit The King’s Arms for Sunday roast: melt-in-the-mouth beef, Yorkshire puds the size of saucers, and gravy that’s basically liquid hug. Puddings? Sticky toffee to die for. We even stumbled on a pop-up seafood market by the quay one afternoon – oysters shucked on the spot, whelks, and cockles straight from the boats. Bargain prices, and we loaded up for a beach picnic (well, garden picnic, given the views).

By week’s end, I’d put on half a stone, but who cares? Blakeney’s all about that unhurried joy of eating local, cooking disasters and all, with mates around a table overlooking the sea. Pure bliss. Can’t wait to go back.