I’ve just got back from the most brilliant week in a cosy holiday cottage in north Norfolk, and honestly, the food was the absolute star of the show. Perched on the edge of a sleepy village near Cromer, the place had this cracking kitchen with a Rayburn that made everything smell like proper home cooking from the off. First morning, I cracked open the local paper and spotted the farmers’ market in Stalham – no brainer, off I went.

Loaded up with the freshest crab from Cromer’s fishermen (it doesn’t get better than that sweet, sweet Cromer crab), samphire foraged from the marshes, and a punnet of strawberries that tasted like summer in a bowl. Back at the cottage, I fancied myself as a bit of a chef. Boiled the crab with some Norfolk cider vinegar, chucked the samphire in with butter and garlic – simple as, but blimey, it was lush. Managed not to poison myself, which is always a win after my last disastrous attempt at seafood back home. Sat out in the garden with a pint of Adnams from the fridge, watching the clouds scud over the salt marshes, feeling all smug and reflective about how we rush around too much without savouring these simple plates.

Pub grub became our daily pilgrimage. The first night, we stumbled into The King’s Head in Letheringsett – a proper freehouse with beams you could bang your head on if you’re daft like me (didn’t, but came close). Went for the local game pie, venison from the nearby estate, encased in buttery pastry with mash that stuck to your ribs. Washed it down with a pint of Woodforde’s Wherry ale, golden and hoppy, brewed just up the road in Norwich. Chatted with the locals about the best spots for mussels – turns out Blakeney’s the go-to, so next day we were there.

Markets were my weakness. Sheringham’s got this brilliant fish auction vibe, even if you’re not bidding; just wander the stalls for whelks, oysters, and hunks of smoked mackerel. I grabbed some for a cottage fry-up: black pudding from a butcher in Holt (thick, peppery slices that sizzle just right), bacon from rare-breed pigs, and eggs from the farm next door. Fried it all up on the Aga, but in my enthusiasm, I turned the bacon to charcoal. Laughed it off with a cuppa, reflecting on how perfection’s overrated – a bit like life, innit? Scraped the best bits onto toast and it was still miles better than anything from a supermarket.

Evenings were for proper Norfolk nosh. Tried my hand at a Cromer crab salad with new potatoes from the veg box delivery – delivered right to the cottage, fresh as a daisy. Paired it with a bottle of crisp English white from the Sandringham estate vineyards. Then it was off to The White Horse at Brancaster Staithe for moules marinières, plump mussels in creamy cider sauce, with chips so crunchy they could cut glass. Puddings? Sticky toffee from the pub’s gran, they reckoned, and boy, did it deliver – all treacle and sponge, with custard thicker than my wallet.

Every meal felt like a love letter to Norfolk’s larder: seafood straight from the North Sea, game from the Broads, cheeses from Walsingham that crumble just so. Left with a belly full of memories and a fridge plan pinched from the cottage cookbook. If you’re after a holiday where the eating outshines the sightseeing, get yourself to a Norfolk cottage – you won’t regret it.