I’ll never forget the drive down to Southwold – a proper British road trip gone slightly pear-shaped. We’d set off from Norwich full of beans, Spotify blasting some indie tunes, dreaming of salty sea air and fish suppers. But halfway there, the satnav decided to have a midlife crisis, rerouting us through a maze of narrow lanes where the hedges practically scraped the wing mirrors. Cue mild panic and a detour past a field of bemused cows. Still, by early afternoon, we rolled into town, hearts lifting at the sight of those pastel beach huts lining the promenade. What a first impression – Southwold hit us like a refreshing sea breeze.

Our little pad was cute as a button and cosy as can be, this coastal retreat ideal for a romantic stay in sunny Southwold. Tucked on a peaceful street, it was a tranquil holiday spot with the beach just a short stroll away. We dumped the bags, cracked open a couple of local Adnams beers from the fridge (cheers to that arrival treat), and got stuck into planning our feast-first holiday. No grand itineraries here – just eating, drinking, and a bit of waddling between pubs.

First stop: the Southwold Friday market, a gem we stumbled upon by luck. It’s this buzzing little affair on the common, stalls groaning under fresh Suffolk produce. We nabbed plump strawberries that tasted like summer, crusty sourdough from the bakery tent, and a wedge of creamy Baron Bigod cheese that had us salivating on the spot. Back at the apartment, I fancied myself a MasterChef, whipping up a picnic lunch with local smoked mackerel from the fishmonger’s stall, slathered on that bread with a dollop of horseradish. It was a triumph – mostly. Okay, fine, I nearly set the toaster oven on fire trying to grill the mackerel, but the sea view from the window made it all forgivable. Gentle self-reflection moment: I’m no Gordon Ramsay, but there’s joy in faffing about in a holiday kitchen, isn’t there?

Evenings were pub heaven. The Lord Nelson, just a hop from our door, became our local. We kicked off with platters of fresh oysters – briny, straight from the North Sea – followed by hearty fish pie that melted in your mouth. Pints of Ghost Ship flowed, and we chatted with locals about the best crab catches. Next night, it was the Red Lion for crab sandwiches (Suffolk’s answer to perfection) and chips so crisp they crunched like applause. We even tried cooking again: a stab at seafood linguine using prawns and mussels from the market. It was edible, if a tad overcooked – my other half’s diplomatic “rustic charm” verdict had us in stitches.

One highlight was breakfast at the Beach Hut Cafe, nabbing an outside table for bacon butties and kippers, watching dog-walkers on the pier. And don’t get me started on the ice cream from the parlour – honeycomb flavour, drippy bliss on a sunny afternoon. We wandered to the Swan for a posher lunch of Suffolk ham and eggs, but honestly, the simple stuff shone brightest.

By the end of our stay, we’d packed on a few pounds but left with full bellies and fuller memories. Southwold’s food scene is unpretentious magic – markets fuelling kitchen disasters, pubs dishing pure comfort. If you’re after a holiday where every moment revolves around the next meal, this is your spot. We’re already plotting a return.