I’ve just got back from the most brilliant week in a cosy holiday cottage in north Norfolk, and honestly, the food stole the show – it was less about sandy beaches and more about scoffing my way through pubs, markets, and some hilariously dodgy home-cooked disasters.

We rented this cracking little stone cottage near Blakeney, right on the edge of the salt marshes, with a proper Aga cooker that promised rustic feasts but mostly just smoked us out. First morning, I fancied playing the domestic goddess and attempted a full English breakfast. Sausages from the local butcher in Cley-next-the-Sea – thick, herby beauties made with Norfolk pork – bacon from rare-breed pigs, and eggs from a nearby farm. But I overloaded the Aga, and the lot turned into a charred crisp. Laughing over our blackened toast with marmalade from the cottage’s welcome hamper, I reflected on how I’m brilliant at ordering takeaways but a total liability in the kitchen. Hubby just grinned and said, “Stick to the pub grub, love.”

Speaking of pubs, we hit The White Horse in Blakeney that first night. Proper seaside local with beams low enough to concuss the unwary. We demolished platters of Cromer crab – sweet, fresh as can be, straight off the boats – with crusty bread and a zingy mayo. Followed by fish pie topped with cheesy mash, all washed down with a pint of Adnams Ghost Ship. It was heaven; that creamy, flaky cod just melted. We chatted with locals about the best spots for samphire foraging – those salty marsh greens that Norfolk does so well – and I made a mental note to try them next.

Midweek, we pottered to Holt’s market on a Thursday. What a gem! Stalls groaning under local cheeses like Mrs Bell’s Norfolk Blue (a bit like a punchy Brie), jars of chutney made with quince from nearby orchards, and piles of fresh whelks and cockles. I loaded up on venison sausages and a loaf of proper sourdough, dreaming of cottage casseroles. Back home, I braised some shoulder of lamb from the butcher’s – tender, falling-off-the-bone stuff with rosemary from the garden – but overseasoned it with thyme and ended up with a salty sludge. Another self-roast moment: maybe I’m better suited to grazing than gourmet. We salvaged it with jacket spuds and a bottle of Norfolk red from Ashwood Wines, chuckling at my culinary curses.

Evenings were for more pub crawls. The King’s Head in Holt served up mussels in white wine – plump and garlicky, mopped with chips – and a treacle tart that was pure sticky bliss. Then The Ship in Cley for crab linguine and crab bisque, both so briny and brilliant you could taste the North Sea. One night, we even stumbled on a pop-up seafood barbecue at Morston Quay, grilling whole plaice with samphire butter under the stars.

By the end, my waistband was protesting, but my soul was fed. Norfolk’s food scene – from quayside catches to farm-fresh feasts – turned our cottage stay into a proper edible adventure. Can’t wait to go back and maybe, just maybe, master that Aga.