I’ve just got back from the most brilliant week in a cosy holiday cottage in north Norfolk, and honestly, the whole trip revolved around eating – glorious, greedy eating. Perched on the edge of the salt marshes near Blakeney, the cottage was a proper gem: stone floors, a wood-burning stove, and a kitchen that begged for culinary disasters. My mate Dave and I turned up with grand plans to live off the land, or at least the local markets, and we weren’t disappointed.

First morning, we hit Cromer for the crab. Fresh off the boats, those sweet, meaty beauties were a tenner for a whole one, and we cracked them open on the cottage patio with a view of seals barking in the distance. Messy? Utterly. But slathered in mayo and stuffed in a roll with samphire foraged from the beach (well, bought from a roadside stall), it was heaven. Lunch sorted, we wandered into the weekly market in Holt – think artisan cheeses from the Flint Farm, jars of Norfolk honey, and those fat, golden pork pies from the butcher. I snaffled a chunk of Mrs Temple’s fudge and regretted nothing.

Evenings were pub time, naturally. The White Horse at Brancaster Staithe became our local – a proper seaside boozer with beams low enough to clonking your head if you’re daft like me. We demolished platters of Whitby scampi and chips, drowned in vinegar, washed down with Adnams Ghost Ship. One night, buzzing from the ale, we tried the seafood chowder: creamy, packed with mussels and smoked haddock straight from the quayside. Dave declared it “better than me nan’s,” which is high praise indeed. The landlord even slipped us a recipe scribbled on a napkin – turns out it’s dead simple with local stock.

Cooking in the cottage was where the real fun (and fails) happened. That kitchen had every gadget, so we fancied ourselves as chefs. Dinner one night: samphire risotto with lemon sole from Wells-next-the-Sea market. I stirred the arborio like a pro until Dave pointed out I’d used pudding rice by mistake. It turned into a gloopy, but tasty, abomination. Laughing over our rubbish efforts, pint in hand, I had a proper moment of reflection – when did I last slow down enough to muck about in a kitchen without a care? It was pure bliss, no Instagram pressure, just us two reprobates salvaging supper.

Another bash was a full Norfolk fry-up: bacon from the smokery in Cley, black pudding that could stand a spoon in, and eggs from the honesty box down the lane. We fried it all up with tomatoes roasted till they burst, and bloody hell, it beat any hotel brekkie. For a treat, we nipped to The Crown in Thornham for crab linguine – al dente pasta twirled with chilli and garlic, the freshest catch imaginable. Pub grub elevated to art.

By the end of the week, we’d ballooned a stone each, but who cares? Norfolk’s food scene – wild, salty, unpretentious – is the stuff of dreams. If you’re after a holiday where every day’s a feast, book that cottage. Just pack stretchy trousers.