I’ve just got back from the most brilliant week in a cosy holiday cottage in north Norfolk, and honestly, the whole trip revolved around eating – glorious, greedy eating. Perched on the edge of the salt marshes near Blakeney, the cottage was a proper gem: low-beamed ceilings, an Aga that could’ve cooked a roast for the royals, and a garden spilling over with herbs. But let’s be clear, I wasn’t there for the views (though the seals barking at Blakeney Point were a bonus). No, it was all about the food – markets, pubs, and my half-arsed attempts at playing chef.

First morning, I legged it to Wells-next-the-Sea market, just a short drive away. Norfolk’s markets are legendary, and this one didn’t disappoint. I loaded up on fresh samphire – that crunchy, salty marsh grass that tastes like the sea in your mouth – plump Cromer crabs, and wheels of creamy Baron Bigod cheese from Fen Farm Dairy. There were stalls groaning with whelks, oysters from Brancaster, and jars of local honey. I resisted the urge to buy a whole hog roast (tempting as it was) and headed back to whip up lunch. Well, “whip up” is generous. I steamed the crab clumsily, spilling bits everywhere, and paired it with buttery new potatoes from the veg man. Sat in the cottage garden with a chilled bottle of Norfolk cider, picking at the sweet meat – pure bliss. Made me reflect on how we city folk forget the joy of simple, fresh grub; no faffing with recipes, just nature doing the heavy lifting.

Evenings were pub time, naturally. The White Horse at Brancaster Staithe became our local – a proper seaside boozer with windswept views over the dunes. First night, I went for the moules marinières, fat mussels in a garlicky white wine sauce, mopped up with crusty bread. Washed down with a pint of Woodforde’s Wherry ale, brewed right here in Norfolk. The next evening, fish and chips: haddock so fresh it was still dreaming of the North Sea, battered to crispy perfection, with mushy peas that hit the spot. My mate Dave demolished a steak pie the size of a house brick, and we laughed about how these portions could feed a family of four. Pub grub doesn’t get better – hearty, unpretentious, and always with a cheeky side of banter from the locals.

Of course, I tried cooking proper dinners on that Aga. One night, samphire risotto with lemon sole from the Sheringham fishmonger. Sounded posh, but I overseasoned it with the garden thyme and ended up with a salty sludge. Chuckled to myself over a glass of Adnams Ghost Ship – classic me, biting off more than I can chew. Self-reflection moment: holidays like this remind you that perfection’s overrated; it’s the messing about in the kitchen, the spills and triumphs, that make it memorable. Another bash was a crab linguine, which actually worked, served with a rocket salad and crusty loaf from the Holt bakery.

We capped it with a Sunday roast at The King’s Head in Letheringsett – crackling pork belly, Yorkshire puds like clouds, and gravy that could make you weep. Rolled home stuffed, vowing to recreate it. Norfolk’s food scene is a dream for cottage stays: wild, bountiful, and tied to the land and sea. If you’re planning a trip, pack stretchy trousers and dive in – you won’t regret it.