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 near Blakeney, with those endless marshy views out the window, the place had a proper farmhouse kitchen that begged for faffing about with local grub. First morning, I nipped to the weekly market in nearby Holt – what a gem. Stalls groaning under fresh Cromer crab, plump whelks, and the creamiest cheeses from the dairy farms. I bagged a punnet of strawberries the size of golf balls and some smoked mackerel that smelled like heaven. Back at the cottage, I attempted a “gourmet” breakfast: crab on toast with a drizzle of chilli oil I’d rustled up from the pantry. It was lush, though I did burn the edges – classic me, all enthusiasm, no finesse.

Pub lunches became our daily ritual, and Norfolk does them proper. The White Horse at Blakeney was a highlight – sat outside with the breeze off the salt marshes, demolishing a plate of samphire-flecked fish and chips. The batter was so crisp, it crunched like autumn leaves, and the mushy peas? Spot on, none of that wishy-washy nonsense. Washed it down with a pint of Adnams Ghost Ship – light, citrusy, perfect for a sunny arvo. Another day, we wandered to The King’s Head in Cley-next-the-Sea, that chocolate-box village with the wonky tower. Their ploughman’s was a work of art: hunks of mature cheddar from Fen Farm Dairy, crusty bread, and pickled onions that had me puckering up like I’d kissed a lemon. I reflected there, fork midway to mouth, how these simple, hearty feeds beat any poncy London brunch. Life’s too short for avocado on sourdough when you’ve got proper Norfolk cheddar.

Evenings were for cottage cooking, and I channelled my inner Delia Smith (with mixed results). Sourced mussels from a bloke at the market – fresh as, straight from the Brancaster beds. Steamed them in white wine, garlic, and cream, serving with hunks of baguette from the Holt bakery. They were divine, plump and briny, though I overdid the chilli flakes and spent half the meal gulping cider to douse the fire. Laughed about it over sticky toffee pudding I’d attempted – the cottage had a cracking Aga, but mine came out more like a brick than a pud. Still, with local honey and double cream, it was salvageable. One night, we splashed out at The Duck Inn in Stanhoe – upscale but not stuffy. Their venison from the Holkham estate was melt-in-the-mouth, paired with damsons and a jug of red from the Adnams range. Pub dessert was elderflower panna cotta, light as a feather.

Reflecting on it now, amid the rush back home, that week was a gentle nudge: slow down, savour the soil-to-plate magic of Norfolk. No takeaways, just markets, pubs, and my bungled masterpieces. If you’re hankering for a holiday where the eating’s as good as the scenery, grab a cottage here. You won’t leave hungry – or unchanged.