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—properly stuffing our faces with local grub, pub crawls, and a few hilarious kitchen disasters. Perched near Blakeney on the coast, the cottage was a dream: stone floors, an Aga that I swore I’d master, and a larder begging to be filled with Norfolk goodies. From the off, food was the star—no hikes or beach strolls without plotting the next meal.

First morning, we piled into the car for the Saturday market in Holt, that posh little town nearby. It’s a proper feast for the senses: stalls groaning under Cromer crab, fresh whelks, and jars of samphire pickled just so. I snaffled up a punnet of local strawberries the size of golf balls—sweet as anything—and some venison sausages from a butcher who looked like he’d stepped out of a Dick Francis novel. Back at the cottage, I fancied myself a chef, browning those bangers with apples from a roadside honesty box. Disaster struck when I forgot the onions were still in the pan from last night’s burnt toast experiment. The cottage filled with smoke, and we ended up laughing over charred offerings with mugs of builder’s tea. Self-reflection moment: maybe I’m better at eating than cooking, eh?

Pubs became our daily pilgrimage. The White Horse in Blakeney was a highlight—right on the quay, with pints of Adnams pulled straight from the barrel. We demolished plates of mussels steamed in cider, plump and briny from the fresh catch that morning. Norfolk’s seafood is unreal; I’m still dreaming of the Whitstable oysters we slurped at The King’s Head in Cley next door, washed down with a crisp white from their stellar wine list. One evening, after a pint too many of bitter, I challenged myself to recreate the pub’s fish pie back home. Big mistake. The cottage’s ancient oven turned my béchamel into a gluey mess, and the smoked haddock flaked into oblivion. We salvaged it with extra cheddar—Norfolk’s own Mrs Tempo’s—and it wasn’t half bad, really. A gentle nudge to my ego: perfection’s overrated when you’re on holiday.

Midweek, we hit Sheringham for fish and chips from the golden chippy on the front—battered cod so crisp it shattered, with mushy peas that hit the spot. Then, a detour to Wells-next-the-Sea for crab sandwiches at the harbourside sheds, eaten straight from paper bags while watching the boats unload. Evenings wrapped up with cottage feasts: I roasted a brace of pheasants from a farm shop near Fakenham, slathered in honey and mustard, served with bread sauce and buttery cabbage. Paired with a bottle of Norfolk rosé, it felt like we’d cracked the good life.

By the end of the week, my jeans were protesting, but who cares? That Norfolk food trail—markets bulging with produce, pubs dishing up hearty classics, and my own slapdash suppers—made it unforgettable. If you’re heading that way, pack stretchy trousers and dive in. You won’t regret it.