I’ll never forget the drive to Blakeney – we’d packed the car to the gills with wellies, binoculars, and enough cheese for a small army, only for the sat-nav to chuck us down a narrow lane that turned into a muddy quagmire just outside Cley. There I was, white-knuckling the wheel while my other half, Jen, calmly suggested reversing into a ditch might not be the vibe for our romantic getaway. A quick tow from a passing farmer (cheers, mate) and we were back on track, laughing about how we always manage to turn a two-hour journey into an episode of some daft motoring show.

Pulling up to the place, though, all that stress melted away. It’s this gorgeous little Norfolk maisonette, done up to a proper high standard, with a private garden that begged for a cuppa and a stare at the nothing-much-happening. And blimey, the master bedroom’s panoramic view over the marshes and sea? Straight out of a painting. We dumped the bags and just stood there, grinning like idiots, already buzzing about the week ahead.

First morning, we wandered the short stroll into Blakeney village, grabbing fresh crab from the quay – none of your fancy Michelin nonsense, just proper, salty seafood straight off the boats. Sat on the harbour wall with a flask of tea, watching seals bob about in the channel, it felt like we’d slipped into some proper cottage life dream. Jen reckoned they were waving at us; I think they were just eyeing our sandwiches.

The garden became our HQ for lazy afternoons. We’d fire up the barbecue (after I nearly set fire to my eyebrows faffing with the matches), crack open a bottle of Norfolk cider, and pretend we were experts at birdwatching. Oystercatchers piping away, avocets strutting their stuff – we didn’t spot anything rare, mind, but who cares? It was dead peaceful, just us two, muddling through with a pair of borrowed bins that kept fogging up.

One evening, we joined a seal boat trip from the quay – gentle chug out to Blakeney Point, where the pups were flopping about like oversized socks. Jen got proper emotional, whispering about how it’s all so fragile out there on the saltmarshes. Made me reflect a bit, you know? We’re always rushing about back home, chasing deadlines and to-do lists. Here, it was all about the simple stuff: tide coming in, sun dipping low, no signal on the phone to ruin it. I caught myself thinking, why don’t we make more space for this? Not grand adventures, just pottering about, getting windswept, and coming home smelling of sea salt and chippy vinegar.

We did the coastal path walk to Morston one day, dodging cow pats and getting dive-bombed by terns, then treated ourselves to cream tea at a tearoom where the scones were still warm. Chaos ensued when a gust scattered our jam pots – classic us, turning tea into a sticky farce. But that’s the joy of it, isn’t it? No itinerary, just rolling with the breezes and each other.

Leaving felt bittersweet. As we locked up, that marsh view lingered in the windows like a promise to come back. Blakeney’s got that magic – pulls you in for a breather, reminds you life’s best when it’s a bit messy and full of seals. Can’t wait for the next mishap already.