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 a sleepy village near Blakeney, the cottage was a proper gem: stone floors, a wood-burner, and a kitchen that screamed “whip up a feast”. But let’s be clear, I’m no MasterChef; my cooking attempts were more comedy than cordon bleu.

First morning, I pottered down to the weekly market in nearby Holt. Norfolk markets are a dream for foodies – stalls groaning under fresh crab from Cromer, plump whelks, and samphire foraged from the salt marshes. I loaded up on local cheeses (that creamy Mrs Bells from Walsingham is unreal), artisan bread, and a punnet of strawberries so sweet they didn’t need sugar. Back at the cottage, I tried my hand at a crab salad for lunch. Sounds posh, right? It was basically crabmeat slathered on toast with mayo from a jar, but washed down with a crisp Norfolk cider from Woodforde’s, it felt gourmet. Gentle self-reflection moment: staring at the wonky pile on my plate, I realised half the joy is in the messing about – no Michelin-star pressure here.

Evenings were pub central, and Norfolk does them like nowhere else. The first night, we ambled to The White Horse in Blakeney – a proper quay-side boozer with beams low enough to clock your head on (note to self: duck). I went for the mussel pot, steamed in white wine with garlic and chunks of sourdough to mop up the sauce. Divine. Washed it down with a pint of Adnams Ghost Ship – light, zesty, perfect for a balmy evening watching the boats bob. The landlady even slipped us a cheeky extra basket of chips. “Norfolk portions,” she winked. Cheeky humour aside, pubs like this are why I love the countryside; no pretension, just hearty grub and locals spinning yarns about the best fishing spots.

Midweek, I fancied flexing in the cottage kitchen properly. Armed with a shoulder of local lamb from the market butcher (he swore it was from the salt marshes, which I’m taking with a pinch of samphire), I slow-roasted it with rosemary from the garden and Norfolk potatoes. Turned out half-decent, if I say so myself – crispy fat, melt-in-mouth meat. Served with a jug of gravy and a bottle of red from the village offy. But truth be told, the highlight was the next day’s disaster: attempting Cromer crab cakes. Mine resembled hockey pucks, but fried up anyway and devoured with homemade tartare sauce (shop-bought mayo jazzed with capers). Laughing through the crumbs, I reflected on how holidays remind you that botched meals taste better with mates and a sea view.

We capped it with fish and chips from the hut in Sheringham – batter like clouds, peas mushy as they should be – eaten on the beach as the sun dipped. Pub crawls to The King’s Head in Letheringsett for venison pie followed, all sticky toffee pud and real ales. Norfolk’s food scene is unpretentious magic: seafood-fresh, farm-direct, pub-perfected. I rolled home fitter in spirit, if a stone heavier. Reckon I’ll be back for more market hauls and kitchen capers next summer. Cheers to that!