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 sandy walks and more about scoffing, supping, and the odd kitchen disaster.

The cottage was one of those charming stone jobbies near Blakeney, with a proper Aga that promised home-cooked feasts but mostly delivered smoke alarms and my swearing. We arrived ravenous, so first stop was the village pub, The White Horse. Proper Norfolk grub there: a pint of Adnams Ghost Ship (ghostly smooth, that one) and a plate of Cromer crab cakes that were so fresh, I swear they were still pinching. Sat by the fire, chatting with locals about the best spots for samphire – turns out it’s just down the quay, growing wild like nature’s free snack.

Next morning, we hit the farmers’ market in Holt. What a bounty! Stalls groaning under local cheeses – Mrs Temple’s Tunworth, creamy and pongy in the best way – and venison from the estate, plus jars of Norfolk honey that I slathered on everything. I grabbed some smoked mackerel from the smokery van and a punnet of strawberries the size of golf balls. Back at the cottage, I fancied myself a chef: seared the mackerel with new potatoes and a handful of that samphire, wilted in butter. Turned out smashing, if I say so myself. Paired it with a bottle of crisp Norfolk rosé from Ashill Fine Wines – who knew we made wine this good?

Pub crawls became our daily ritual. Drove to The King’s Head in Letheringsett for Sunday roast: crackling that shattered like glass, Yorkshire puds the size of hubcaps, and gravy so rich it could’ve been bottled. Laughed with the barman about my “Aga adventures” – he reckoned us townies always burn the first batch. One evening, we tried The Lifeboat Inn in Sheringham, right by the sea. Fish and chips wrapped in paper, mushy peas on the side, and a sticky toffee pudding that had me scraping the bowl. Sat outside watching the waves, reflecting on how I never eat this well at home – work lunches are sad Pret sandwiches by comparison. Why don’t I make the effort?

My cooking highlight (slash lowlight) was a go at Norfolk Game Pie. Snagged pheasant from the market, chucked in leeks, bacon, and a splash of ale from Woodforde’s brewery. The pastry puffed up like a dream, but I overdid the mustard – eyes watering, but we devoured it with pickled beetroot and a cheeky glass of Adnams Broadside. Self-reflection moment: I’m rubbish at portion control; leftovers lasted three days of epic ploughman’s lunches on the terrace.

Wrapped up with cream teas from a tearoom in Cley – scones still warm, clotted cream thicker than my accent, and jam from local orchards. Norfolk’s food scene is unpretentious magic: fresh, hearty, and tied to the land. Can’t wait to go back and botch another recipe. If you’re planning a cottage stay, pack stretchy trousers – you’ll need ’em!