I’d just about had it with the M11 crawl when the SatNav decided to throw a wobbly, directing me down a leafy lane near Foxley that looked more like a badger’s shortcut than a road to anywhere. A branch scraped the roof of my little hatchback – nothing serious, just enough to make me mutter a few choice words and laugh at my city-slicker self thinking Norfolk’s roads would be a doddle. But there it was, after a final twist through ancient hedgerows: Fox Tiny House, this adorable wooden nook tucked in the Breckland countryside, all compact charm and welcoming vibes. I’d booked it for a three-day escape, craving that proper Norfolk slow-down, and from the off, it screamed cosy getaway – especially with its pint-sized kitchen that was about to become my culinary battlefield.

Pulling up that Friday afternoon, the sun dipping low over the fields, I was starving. No faffing about with check-in malarkey; it was all self-contained, key in the lock, and straight into that kitchen. The place is tiny, mind – think one-burner hob, a mini-fridge humming away, and a worktop the size of a tea tray – but it’s kitted out smartly for proper home cooking. I’d stopped at a farm shop just a couple of miles back in Aylsham on the way, snagging local treats: a slab of Norfolk Dapple cheese, fresh sourdough from the bakery counter, and a punnet of strawberries so red they practically glowed. First impressions? Heaven for a foodie like me. I sliced that cheese thick, smeared it on the bread with some chutney I found in the cupboard (cheers, previous guests), and cracked open a bottle of Adnams Ghost Ship from the off-licence cooler. Sat on the decking as the light faded, munching away, I felt the week’s stress melt like butter on hot toast. Norfolk air makes everything taste better, doesn’t it?

Saturday morning kicked off with brekkie experiments – my first real go at wielding that compact cooker. I’d nipped to the Foxley village shop (a five-minute wander, if that) for eggs from local hens, smoked bacon rashers that smelled like smoky heaven, and a loaf of granary bread. Attempted a full English in miniature: fried the lot up, juggling pans like a circus act, only to discover the grill’s too small for proper crispy edges. Ended up with a slightly soggy sarnie, but slathered in HP sauce and eaten on the tiny patio with blackbirds chirping, it was perfection. Laughing at my burnt banger mishap – one sausage sacrificed to the hob gods – I reflected on how I never bother cooking proper like this back home. Tiny house life forces you to get hands-on, and blimey, it’s liberating. Makes you appreciate the simple joy of a decent cuppa afterwards, brewed strong with milk from the farm down the lane.

Lunch was pub time, naturally. The nearest gem, a classic Norfolk boozer within spitting distance – let’s call it the Foxley Arms, all low beams and log fires – served up the best ploughman’s I’ve had in ages. Chunky cheddar (same as mine, but aged to perfection), pickled onions that zinged, and a pint of Woodforde’s Wherry that slid down like liquid gold. Chatted with locals about the harvest, feeling like I’d stumbled into a proper village heartbeat. Back at the Tiny House, dinner was my big swing: market finds from Swaffham’s Saturday stall (just four miles, loaded with fresh veg and pork pies). I rustled up a makeshift Norfolk hotpot – lamb from the butcher’s counter, spuds sliced thin, chucked in a pan with herbs from the window box. Overcooked the tatties a tad (tiny oven’s a tyrant), but with a dollop of mustard and a side of those strawberries, it hit the spot. Sat inside by the window, fairy lights twinkling, savouring every bite while the countryside went quiet.

By Sunday, my first impressions were sealed: Fox Tiny House isn’t just a stay, it’s a foodie’s dream bolthole. That final brekkie – scrambled eggs on toast with local butter – had me pondering how I’ve let grab-and-go meals rule my life. This place, with its nudge towards proper cooking and pub-hopping, reminded me to slow down and taste the good stuff. Mishap on the road or not, it was the perfect Norfolk nosh fest.