I’ve just got back from the most brilliant week in a cosy holiday cottage in Northumberland, and honestly, the food was the absolute star of the show. Perched on the edge of the Northumberland National Park near Alnwick, our little stone cottage had a cracking kitchen with a Rayburn that I swore I’d master – spoiler: I didn’t, but the epic fails made for some laughs.

First morning, we piled into Alnwick for the market. It’s one of those proper outdoor affairs on a Saturday, stalls heaving with local cheeses, plump sausages from rare-breed pigs, and jars of Northumberland honey that tastes like sunshine. I grabbed a wedge of sticky toffees from a cheery vendor and some smoked kippers from Craster – those smoky fish are a rite of passage here. Back at the cottage, I attempted a full Northumberland breakfast: bacon from the market, black pudding, and those kippers grilled with a knob of butter. It was lush, though I overdid the Luddite toast (that Rayburn’s a beast). Sat by the Aga with a mug of builder’s tea, watching sheep mooch about outside, I had one of those moments: when did simple grub like this start feeling more indulgent than a fancy brunch in London?

Pub lunches became our daily ritual. The Ship Inn down in Craster is a gem – we trudged along the coastal path, wind whipping our faces, then collapsed into its low-beamed snug for crab sandwiches made with fresh-from-the-sea brown crab meat, slathered on crusty bread with mayo and a side of chips. Proper fuel for battling the North Sea gales. One night, we hit The Pack Horse in Wylam, a traditional free house with beams older than my nan. I went for the beef and ale pie, pastry flaky as anything, swimming in gravy from local brew. Paired with a pint of Allendale Wolf, it was heaven. We got chatting to locals about the best spots for Lindisfarne oysters – turns out the jetty at low tide is where it’s at, but I bottled it after one salty, briny slurp. Too posh for my northern soul, maybe?

Evenings were for cottage cooking experiments. Markets in Morpeth yielded game from nearby estates – pheasant and venison. I tried a slow-cooked venison casserole with root veg and a splash of ale, inspired by a recipe scribbled on a pub napkin. It bubbled away nicely, though I forgot the dumplings and ended up with a hearty stew that tasted like home. We cracked open a bottle of something cheeky from the Co-op and tucked in by the fire. Self-reflection hit again over pudding: a crumble made with those market apples and Northumberland custard (thick enough to stand a spoon in). Amid all this feasting, I realised I’ve been missing out – city life’s rushed meals don’t hold a candle to this unhurried, belly-rubbing bliss.

Pubs like The Victoria in Beadnell capped it off with fish suppers overlooking the dunes – golden batter, mushy peas, the works. Leaving was torture; I’m already plotting a return for the crab season. If you’re after a holiday where the eats steal the show, Northumberland’s your spot. My waistline agrees, reluctantly.