I’ve just got back from the most brilliant week in a cosy holiday cottage in north Norfolk, and honestly, the food was the absolute star of the show. Perched on the edge of a sleepy village near Wells-next-the-Sea, the place had this cracking kitchen with a Rayburn that I immediately christened my new best mate. First morning, I pottered down to the weekly market in Wells – proper Norfolk bounty, you know? Piles of fresh crab straight off the boats, plump whelks, and samphire that tasted like the sea kissed it. I loaded up a bag with local sausages, smoked mackerel, and a hunk of creamy Baron Bigod cheese that could make you weep. Back at the cottage, I attempted a fry-up that was more enthusiasm than expertise – the bangers burst like fireworks, and my attempt at soda bread turned into a rather fetching doorstop. Laughing at my own efforts over a cuppa, I realised holidays are for embracing the glorious failures, aren’t they?

Pub lunches became our daily pilgrimage. The White Horse at Brancaster Staithe was a revelation – we scoffed plates of Cromer crab salad with chips so crisp they crunched like autumn leaves. Washed down with a pint of Adnams Ghost Ship, it felt like pure Norfolk poetry. One rainy afternoon, we hunkered down at The Hero in Burnham Deepdale, where the fish pie was a hug in a dish: flaky cod, prawns, and a mash topping so buttery it forgave the downpour outside. I couldn’t resist the sticky toffee pudding, which stuck to my ribs and my soul. Pub grub here isn’t fancy, but it’s honest – portions that leave you properly full, and banter with locals about the best spots for wild swimming (and apparently, the dodgiest hangovers).

Evenings were for cottage cooking experiments. With a bounty from Blakeney’s deli – jars of chutney, artisanal bread, and that salty air-cured ham – I tried my hand at a seafood linguine. The pine nuts got a bit charred (note to self: watch the Aga like a hawk), but the prawns and mussels from the quay were so fresh, it was divine anyway. We paired it with a bottle of Norfolk rosé from Aldeby, toasting to simple pleasures. One night, feeling reflective after a disastrous attempt at Norfolk plover’s eggs (turns out they’re seasonal and I’d grabbed quails’ instead), I sat by the fire munching on a cheeseboard, pondering how these little mishaps make you appreciate the pros. Why slave over a hot stove at home when you can botch it on holiday and call it character-building?

Day trips to Great Yarmouth’s market for whelks and cockles, or Holt’s farm shop for venison pies, kept the feast going. Breakfasts of black pudding from the butcher in Fakenham, picnics of pork scratchings and pickled onions. By the end, I’d packed on a happy stone, but who cares? Norfolk fed my belly and my heart – next time, I’m booking two weeks just for the puddings.