We’d only just turned off the A12 when the satnav decided Lowestoft was a suggestion rather than a destination, and we ended up parked outside a closed garden centre in Oulton Broad with a boot full of shopping we’d meant to drop at the cottage first. By the time we found the right lane and pulled up at 5 Bed Cottage, the fish and chips we’d grabbed from the kiosk by the bridge were only just warm. Still, the smell of vinegar and salt drifting through the open car window was oddly cheering, and we ate them straight from the paper on the little patio while the key safe clicked open.

Inside, the kitchen felt like it had been waiting for us. A generous wooden table, a fridge already humming, and a note from the owners pointing out the nearest Co-op and the Saturday market in the square. We unpacked the rest of the shopping—local sausages, a crusty loaf, and some rather optimistic vegetables—and decided the first proper meal could wait until we’d found a pub.

The Wherry was only a five-minute stroll, and its low beams and chalkboard specials felt instantly familiar. We ordered the pie of the day and a shared plate of prawns, then sat outside with pints while the light faded over the broad. The pastry was properly crisp, the filling rich with thyme, and we lingered longer than planned because neither of us wanted to admit the walk back might feel longer after a second round.

Next morning we woke to the sound of gulls and the promise of the market. It was modest but perfect: a stall selling smoked fish, another with jars of honey and chutney, and a baker whose sourdough loaves were still warm. We bought far more than we needed, then stopped for coffee at a little café tucked beside the butcher’s. By the time we returned to the cottage the sun had moved round to the garden, so we set up a makeshift picnic on the grass—bread, cheese, and slices of the smoked mackerel—while trying to decide what to cook that evening.

My attempt at a full English the following day was the sort of gentle disaster that only happens when you forget the grill is already on. The sausages survived, the tomatoes did not, and we ended up laughing over slightly charred halves while the kettle whistled. Still, there’s something satisfying about eating breakfast you’ve half-ruined in a kitchen that isn’t yours, especially when the windows are open and you can hear the distant rush of the sea.

By the third evening we’d settled into a rhythm: market in the morning, a pub lunch if the weather held, and then back to the cottage to see what we could cobble together from our slightly haphazard supplies. The local sausages grilled well, the bread toasted nicely, and the honey from the market stall turned out to be the perfect drizzle over thick yoghurt. We ate at the table with the doors wide open, listening to the occasional car pass on the lane, and realised we hadn’t once checked the time.