We’d barely made it past Sheringham when the satnav decided we needed a scenic detour through a farm track that was definitely not meant for our little hatchback. By the time we pulled up outside the 4 Bed Cottage in West Runton, the boot was half full of mud and my partner was muttering something about never trusting Google again. Still, the moment we stepped inside, the smell of fresh bread from the nearby bakery drifted through the open window and instantly made the whole journey worth it.

The cottage sits just a short stroll from the beach path, so once we’d dumped our bags we wandered down to the little shop on the high street for supplies. We came back with a crusty loaf, local crab pâté, and a wedge of Norfolk dapple that looked far too good to last the evening. After a quick tidy-up we headed straight to the Red Lion for an early dinner. Their fish and chips were textbook—crisp batter, fluffy chips, and a pot of mushy peas that my other half insisted on finishing even though he swore he was only “trying them.” We washed it down with a pint of Wherry each and felt properly welcomed to the coast.

The next morning we tried our hand at cooking breakfast in the cottage kitchen. I’d bought eggs and bacon from the Saturday market in nearby Cromer, but the grill on the old range cooker had other ideas and the bacon ended up more charcoal than crispy. We laughed it off, scraped the worst bits into the bin, and made do with thick toast and proper butter instead. Later we popped into the West Runton village store again for pasties to take down to the beach. Sitting on the pebbles with the waves just metres away, even slightly burnt fingers from the hot pastry felt like a small victory.

By evening we were ready for something a bit fancier, so we booked a table at the Ship, just along the coast road. Their seafood risotto was creamy without being heavy, and we couldn’t resist sharing a sticky toffee pudding that arrived still steaming from the kitchen. Over coffee we admitted that our cooking attempts so far had been more enthusiastic than edible, but that was half the fun of a self-catering break. Back at the cottage we made a pact to try again tomorrow—maybe something simple like local sausages and mash—if only to prove we could manage one meal without setting off the smoke alarm.

It’s funny how a weekend by the sea can shrink your worries to the size of a slightly overcooked rasher of bacon. We’ve only been here two nights and already the rhythm of markets, pub lunches, and slightly chaotic kitchen experiments feels like exactly what we needed.