I’ve just got back from the most brilliant week in a cosy holiday cottage in north Norfolk, and honestly, the food stole the show – it was less about traipsing around ruined abbeys and more about scoffing, supping, and the odd kitchen disaster.

Picture this: a chocolate-box thatched cottage near Blakeney, with a proper Aga that promised rustic feasts but tested my culinary skills to the limit. We arrived ravenous after the drive from London, so first stop was the village pub, The White Horse. Proper Norfolk hospitality – pints of Adnams Ghost Ship pulled perfectly, and fish and chips that were a revelation. Crispy batter, flaky cod straight from the quay, mushy peas on the side. I hoovered mine in record time, grinning like an idiot as the locals swapped tall tales about seal-spotting. Pub grub doesn’t get better; it’s hearty, unpretentious, and leaves you plotting the next visit.

Next morning, we hit Cromer for the market. What a buzz! Stalls groaning under fresh crab, lobster pots still twitching, and wheels of creamy Norfolk Dapple cheese. I loaded up on samphire – that salty marsh grass that’s like the sea in vegetable form – plus new potatoes and a punnet of strawberries the size of golf balls. Back at the cottage, I fancied myself a chef. Boiled the samphire (easy peasy), roasted the spuds, and attempted crab linguine. Disaster struck when I cracked the claws too enthusiastically – shell everywhere, and a sneaky bit of cartilage that had me gagging mid-bite. Laughing through tears, we salvaged it with lemon and chilli, washing it down with local Aspall cyder. Lesson learned: next time, leave the shelling to the pros. It was a right mess, but that’s the joy of cottage life – your own edible battlefield.

Evenings were for more pub crawls. Wells-next-the-Sea’s The Albatros did a cracking seafood platter: oysters slick with brine, dressed crab, and prawns that tasted like they’d leapt from the waves that afternoon. Paired with a cheeky Woodforde’s Wherry ale, it was pure bliss. One night, we splashed out at a gastro spot in Holt, The Feathers – venison from nearby farms, slow-cooked till it melted, with black pudding bonbons that were dangerously moreish. I reflected there, fork midway to mouth, on how city life dulls the senses; out here, every bite screams freshness, every meal a mini celebration.

Markets ruled our days too. On Saturday, Sheringham’s bounty: pork pies oozing jelly, smoked mackerel straight off the smokehouse, and fudge that stuck to my teeth gloriously. I tried baking soda bread with it all – another flop, doughy as a damp sock, but slathered in Cromer crab butter, it was redeemed. Pubs punctuated everything; The Lifeboat Inn in Thornham for Sunday roast, where the Yorkshire puds were bigger than my head and the gravy rich with local beef stock.

Self-reflection hit on the last day, nursing a full belly by the Aga, wondering why I don’t eat like this daily. Norfolk’s food scene – wild, seafood-heavy, pub-perfected – reset my priorities. If you’re hankering for a holiday where the highlights are meals, markets, and merry failures, book that cottage now. I’m already plotting round two.