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 near Wells-next-the-Sea, this little stone beauty had a cracking kitchen with a Rayburn that I immediately christened my new best mate—though it took me two burnt attempts to figure out how to use it without turning everything into charcoal.

First morning, I pottered down to the weekly market in Wells harbour. Norfolk’s markets are legendary for their fresh produce, and this one didn’t disappoint. I loaded up on plump local strawberries that tasted like summer in a punnet, slabs of smoked mackerel from the smokery, and a wheel of creamy Baron Bigod cheese that could make you weep with joy. Back at the cottage, I tried my hand at a posh ploughman’s lunch: hunks of crusty bread from the village bakery, that cheese, some pickled onions, and a cheeky chutney I nabbed from the farm stall. It was messy, marvellous, and far superior to anything from a supermarket. Self-reflection moment: I’m rubbish at portion control—ate the lot and needed a nap afterwards.

Evenings were all about the pubs, those proper Norfolk boozers with beams low enough to clock your head on if you’re not careful (note to self: duck more). We kicked off at The Globe in Wells, a gem right by the quay. I went for the Cromer crab salad—sweet, fresh claws piled high with a zingy dressing—and washed it down with a pint of Adnams Ghost Ship. The banter with the locals was half the fun; one chap regaled us with tales of crab pots while I demolished a sticky toffee pudding that was pure sin. Next night, it was The Hero in King’s Lynn for a proper roast—succulent Norfolk Black turkey, Yorkshire puds the size of saucers, and veg from nearby farms. I even squeezed in a side of pigs in blankets because, why not? Pub grub here isn’t just food; it’s a warm hug with chips on the side.

Cooking in the cottage became my hilarious obsession. One evening, inspired by a Holkham butcher’s haul of venison steaks, I attempted a red wine jus. Spoiler: it reduced to a sticky sludge that glued the pan, but the meat was melt-in-the-mouth divine, seared rare and served with mash from those market spuds. We laughed till we cried as I scraped it off, vowing to stick to takeaways next time. But nah, the joy was in the faff—chopping herbs from the cottage garden, sipping local Aspall cyder, feeling like a proper chef (deluded, but happy).

We hit Cley Smokehouse for takeaways one blustery afternoon—smoked salmon and prawns that we scoffed on the beach with crusty rolls. And don’t get me started on the chip shop in Sheringham: battered cod so crisp it crackled, with mushy peas that hit the spot after a windy walk. Reflecting on it now, this trip reminded me how food grounds you—simple, seasonal stuff shared with mates, turning a cottage into a feast HQ. Norfolk’s eating scene is unpretentious bliss; I’m already plotting my return for more market raids and pub crawls. If you’re hankering for a holiday where your waistband takes the hit but your soul’s fed proper, book that cottage now.