We’d barely made it past Alnwick when the satnav decided to send us down a lane so narrow the wing mirrors started arguing with the hedges. By the time we pulled up outside the 4 Bed Cottage in Seahouses I was convinced the car had picked up a souvenir branch or two, but the sight of the little stone house with its neat blue door and the sea just across the road made me forget the scrape entirely. We tumbled out, bags in hand, already talking about where we’d eat first.

The fridge had been stocked by the owners with a welcome loaf from the village bakery and a packet of local sausages, so after a quick unpack we wandered down to the tiny high street in search of something to go with them. The butcher on the corner had fresh crab that morning, and we couldn’t resist a couple of dressed crabs to start the holiday properly. Back at the cottage we spread everything on the scrubbed pine table, poured two very generous glasses of red, and toasted the fact that we’d arrived without actually getting lost—well, not properly lost.

The next morning we strolled to the little Saturday market that sets up near the harbour. Stalls offered crumbly Northumbrian cheese, jars of spiced chutney, and fat scallops that the fishmonger assured us had come in on the dawn boat. We bought far too much and lugged it home in striped cotton bags, already planning a feast. I decided I’d attempt a seafood risotto, something I’d seen on a telly programme and instantly forgotten the details of. An hour later the kitchen looked like a small explosion had occurred and the rice was still chalky in the middle, but the crabby, garlicky smell was enough to keep us cheerful while we opened a bag of crisps as backup.

By evening we were ready for proper pub grub, so we wandered along to The Olde Ship, its windows glowing against the dusk. We tucked ourselves into a corner beside the lifebelt collection and ordered steak-and-ale pie with mash so buttery it probably broke several dietary laws. The landlord’s dog wandered over for scraps and left with half my Yorkshire pudding, which felt like a fair exchange.

The following lunchtime we tried the village chippy, eating our haddock and chips straight from the paper on a bench overlooking the beach. Seagulls wheeled hopefully overhead, and one bold chap nearly made off with a stray chip before I batted him away with the vinegar bottle. It struck me then how much of the holiday was already revolving around what we’d eat next, and how little that bothered me. Usually I’d be fretting about fitting in a coastal walk or a ruined-castle visit, but here the rhythm of markets, pub lunches and slightly over-ambitious kitchen experiments felt exactly right.

By the third night we’d settled into an easy pattern: morning pastries from the bakery, a lazy graze through whatever looked good at the harbour stalls, then an evening round the cottage table trying, with varying degrees of success, to recreate dishes we’d tasted in the pubs. The cottage kitchen, with its wide windows facing the waves, made even the failed risotto attempts feel like part of the charm. As I scraped burnt bits off a tray of roasted scallops—again, the dog from The Olde Ship would have approved—I realised the mishap on the drive in had set the tone perfectly: things might not go exactly to plan, but if there’s good food and good company waiting at the end of the lane, you hardly notice.