Just back from a cracking week in a luxury holiday cottage in Norfolk, and I’m already plotting our return. Tucked away down a leafy lane near Holt, this place was pure bliss – think exposed beams, a roaring Aga, and a garden that rolled right into the wilds. We went as a family of four: me, the missus, our two lads (eight and ten), and enough board games to see us through a biblical flood.

First morning, I’m faffing about brewing tea in that massive farmhouse kitchen, only for chaos to erupt. The boys discovered the hot tub out back and turned it into a pirate ship battleground. Cue soggy towels everywhere and me slipping arse-over-tit trying to intervene. “Dad’s the kraken!” they yelled, as I flailed about. Laugh? I nearly cried – from laughter, mostly. Norfolk’s like that: dead posh on paper, but cottage life levels everyone down to joyful mayhem.

We kept it simple, proper family stuff. Mornings kicking off with crumpets slathered in butter, then piling into the car for Blakeney Point. Seals everywhere, bobbing about like cheeky locals eyeing our pasties. The tide was out, so we trudged across the flats, wind whipping our cheeks, stopping for pebble hunts. The littlest found a “dinosaur egg” (aka a wonky flint), and suddenly he’s David Attenborough. Pure magic, those moments when the world shrinks to sand and sky.

Afternoons were for mooching. Wells-next-the-Sea for fish and chips wrapped in paper, eaten on the quay while watching boats chug in. One evening, we hired bikes and cycled the coastal path to Holkham Beach – miles of empty sand, dunes like something from a film set. The boys built the world’s wobbliest sandcastle empire, complete with moat that promptly filled with seawater. I joined in, inevitably toppling the lot. “Classic Dad,” they chorused. Aye, guilty as charged.

Evenings? Cosy heaven. I’d fire up the wood burner while Sarah rustled up pasta on the Aga (pro tip: it takes ages, but tastes like ambrosia). We’d play Uno till bedtime, the cottage filled with giggles and the odd sulky “reverse card” tantrum. One night, staring at the stars from the hot tub – Orion winking down – I had a proper think. Life’s mad rush back home feels miles away here. Makes you realise simple stuff like this, with your lot, is what recharges the batteries. No influencers needed; just us, a bit of Norfolk magic, and the odd domestic disaster.

Ventured inland once, to Blickling Hall for a National Trust wander – grand house, massive oaks, kids charging about like feral deer. But honestly, the cottage won every time. That chaos – the spilled milk, the muddy boots by the door, the endless “what’s for pudding?” – it’s the glue. Norfolk didn’t dazzle with flash; it wrapped us in that relaxed, windswept hug. Can’t wait to go back and cock it all up again.