I’ll never forget the drive up to the North Norfolk coast – a proper faff from the start. We’d loaded the car with enough foodie kit to open a pop-up restaurant: fresh herbs, a posh olive oil I’d splashed out on, and a cool bag stuffed with Norfolk sausages from the butcher back home. But halfway there, just past Fakenham, the satnav decided to chuck a wobbly and sent us down a narrow lane that turned into a muddy track. Cue 20 minutes of gentle reversing with my other half yelling, “Mind the ditch!” We emerged laughing, caked in splatter, but buzzing with that holiday anticipation – you know, the bit where you imagine scoffing crab claws by the sea.

Pulling up to this stunning property on the Blakeney coastline was pure magic. Elevated with those uninterrupted moody views across the saltmarsh and out to sea, it’s one of the most jaw-dropping spots I’ve stayed. Privacy galore in a luxurious setup, with interiors that feel like an artist’s dream – all elegant and unique. First impressions? Spot on. We dumped the bags and cracked open a bottle of fizz on the terrace, watching the light dance over the water. Proper treat.

But let’s be honest, the real star was the food. Blakeney’s a foodie haven, and with the property’s cracking kitchen – all sleek and begging for a bash at home cooking – we dived right in. First night, I fancied myself as a telly chef, rustling up a seafood linguine using crab from Blakeney’s fresh fish shack down by the harbour. It was lush: sweet, meaty crab meat tossed with garlic, chilli, and a splash of white wine from the local offie. We ate al fresco, salt air whipping up our appetites, and it tasted better than any restaurant, if I say so myself. Gentle self-reflection moment: I’m no Jamie Oliver, mind – the pasta was a tad overdone, but hey, holiday calories don’t count.

Next day, we wandered into the village for the Blakeney deli and market stalls. Proper jackpot: crusty sourdough, local cheeses like Mrs Bell’s Norfolk Blue (smoky and moreish), and pots of whelks that had us hooked. Picked up samphire too – that crisp, salty marsh veg that screams Norfolk. Back at the property, lunch was a messy ploughman’s on the balcony: hunks of cheese, pickles, and those sausages grilled to perfection. Laughed our heads off when one burst open, juices everywhere – “That’s what you get for being greedy,” my mate quipped.

Evenings were pub perfection. The White Horse in Blakeney is a gem, just a short stroll away. We sank pints of Adnams and demolished plates of moules frites, the mussels plump and garlicky in a creamy sauce. Another night, we hit the Kings Arms in nearby Cley – their fish pie was a hug in a dish, all flaky cod and buttery mash. Tried my hand at a Sunday roast back home base too: roast beef from the farm shop, Yorkshire puds risen like champs (first time ever), and gravy made with local ale. Nearly set off the smoke alarm, but it was a triumph. Paired it with views of seals bobbing in the creek – unbeatable.

A few days in, we hit Morston’s NT café for crab sandwiches that were absurdly fresh, straight off the boats. And the chippy in Blakeney? Cod and chips wrapped in paper, eaten on the harbour wall, dodging gulls. Our cooking attempts ramped up – a disastrous but hilarious attempt at Blakeney Point chowder (too much cream, lesson learned), redeemed by baking local strawberries with cream for pud.

This holiday was all about those feasts, the simple joy of foraging markets and faffing in the kitchen with sea views. Left feeling stuffed, content, and plotting the next trip. Norfolk, you’ve got my tastebuds for life.