I’ve just got back from the most brilliant week in a cosy holiday cottage in Norfolk, and honestly, the food was the absolute star of the show. Perched on the edge of the Norfolk Broads, this little gem had a cracking kitchen with a Rayburn that I immediately christened my new best mate—though it took me three burnt attempts to figure out how to work it without setting off the smoke alarm.

First morning, I pottered down to the local market in Wroxham, the 'capital of the Broads'. It’s a proper treasure trove: stalls groaning under fresh crab from Cromer, plump strawberries from the Fens, and wheels of creamy Norfolk Dapple cheese that could make you weep. I loaded up on samphire—those salty, crunchy sea greens that taste like the Norfolk coast in a mouthful—and some just-caught mackerel. Back at the cottage, I tried my hand at pan-frying the lot with a bit of butter and lemon. Disaster? Nearly. The mackerel stuck like glue, but the samphire was divine, steamed with a knob of butter. Sat by the window overlooking the reed beds, tucking in with a cuppa, I had one of those moments: why don’t I eat like this every day? Life’s too short for supermarket slop.

Pub lunches became our daily pilgrimage. The Kings Head in Coltishall is a classic—beamed ceilings, roaring fire, and ploughman’s that could feed a family. Chunky cheddar, pickled onions sharp enough to wake the dead, and bread baked that morning. Washed down with a pint of Woodforde’s Wherry ale, golden and malty, brewed right there in Norwich. I overdid it on the pork scratchings starter (crispy heaven, but my arteries are still recovering), and reflected gently on my student days supping endless pints without a care—nowadays, one too many and I’m knackered by 9pm. Hilarious how priorities shift.

Evenings were for cottage cooking experiments. Sourced venison haunch from a farm shop near Aylsham—gamey, tender, slow-roasted with rosemary from the garden (bonus points for that herb patch). Served with roasted roots and a jug of gravy that I thickened with local barley flour. Paired it with Adnams Ghost Ship, sipped on the patio as the sun dipped over the water. One night, I botched a crab linguine using Cromer’s finest—too much chilli, turned into fiery linguine surprise. Laughed it off with mates over takeaways from the chippy in Potter Heigham: fat cod goujons, mushy peas, and curry sauce that hits the spot like nothing else.

Norfolk’s food scene is unpretentious joy—farm-fresh, seafood-forward, pub-hearty. That cottage kitchen saw triumphs and triumphs-in-waiting, but every meal felt like a hug from the countryside. If you’re pondering a getaway, book one pronto. Your taste buds will thank you, and who knows, you might even master the Rayburn first go.