We set off from Cambridge with the kind of optimism that only comes from having packed far too much food and not nearly enough sense of direction. The satnav decided to send us down a lane that looked suspiciously like someone’s driveway, and we ended up reversing past a very patient horse for what felt like half a mile. By the time we pulled up outside the cottage in Old Hunstanton the sun was already low over the Wash and I was convinced the keys were in the boot of the car we’d just left behind. They weren’t, of course, but the small panic had made the first glimpse of the whitewashed walls and the little gravel drive feel like a proper arrival.

Inside, the kitchen greeted us with a reassuringly solid table and a fridge that was already humming as if it knew we’d brought half a Norfolk market stall with us. We’d stopped at the little greengrocer on the way in and come away with a bag of samphire, some fat Cromer crabs, and a loaf still warm from the oven. The plan had been simple: unpack, then wander down to the beach for fish and chips. Instead we ended up staying in, because the light through the kitchen window was too nice to leave and the crabs weren’t going to dress themselves.

That first evening we walked the short stretch to The Ancient Mariner, the pub at the end of the lane that everyone locally seems to treat as an extension of their own kitchen. The menu was reassuringly short and the portions generous; my partner’s haddock was the size of a small dog and came with chips that actually tasted of potato. I ordered the crab salad and immediately regretted not getting the same as her, but the samphire I’d bought earlier made a decent consolation when we got back and I tried, unsuccessfully, to recreate the pub’s tartare sauce with nothing but mayonnaise and a jar of capers that turned out to be gherkins.

The next morning we headed to the Thursday market in Hunstanton proper, a ten-minute stroll along the seafront where the wind does its best to rearrange your hair. We came back with a paper bag of fresh mussels, a wedge of local cheese, and the sort of sausages that make you question why you ever buy the supermarket kind. Back at the cottage I decided this would be the day I finally cooked something impressive. The mussels went into a pot with white wine and the last of the samphire; the sausages went under the grill. Somewhere between the two I managed to set off the smoke alarm, which the cottage’s owners had thoughtfully placed directly above the cooker. We ate outside on the little patio anyway, watching the tide creep in while the sausages cooled and the mussels, miraculously, tasted exactly as they should.

By the third evening we’d fallen into a gentle rhythm of market, pub, cottage kitchen, repeat. The Ancient Mariner again for their famous pie night, then home to attempt bread-and-butter pudding with the slightly stale loaf from day one. It came out a bit too crisp on top and suspiciously wobbly in the middle, but we ate it anyway, laughing at how the simplest things taste better when you’re not trying to prove anything. Sitting there with the windows open to the salt air, I realised the cottage hadn’t just given us somewhere to sleep; it had given us an excuse to slow down and actually taste where we were.