I’ll never forget the drive to No. 33 Cottage 2 in Thornham – a proper Norfolk jaunt that started with me taking a wrong turn near Hunstanton and ending up chasing a rogue pheasant down a single-track lane. Feathers everywhere, me swearing at the sat-nav like it was my ex, and the bird scarpering into the hedgerows as if it owned the place. Classic me, turning a 45-minute hop into an hour-long comedy of errors. But by the time I trundled into the sleepy village, windows down and sea air whipping in, I was already grinning. Pulled up outside the cottage – this cosy, thatched-roofed beauty tucked into a quiet row, with its whitewashed walls and a front garden bursting with hollyhocks – and thought, yeah, this is the tonic.

First impressions? Blimey, it hit like a warm hug. The owner, Mrs. Edith Hargreaves – bless her, must be pushing 80 with a handshake like a vice – was waiting with a tray of tea and flapjacks that could’ve doubled as doorstops. “You the London lad?” she barked, eyeing my mud-splattered boots. “Don’t mind the cat, he’s a terror on newcomers.” That’d be ginger Tom, a fat tabby who promptly tripped me up on the doorstep, sending my keys flying into a flowerpot. Edith cackled like a witch from a Beatrix Potter tale. “He’s met his match then!” Turned out she’d lived in Thornham her whole life, born in the very cottage next door. Over that tea – proper builder’s brew, strong enough to strip paint – she regaled me with tales of the 1953 floods, when the sea came calling right up the lane. “Lost me best welly that night,” she chuckled, “but gained a story for every stranger like you.”

No sooner had I dumped my bags in the snug lounge – think exposed beams, a wood-burner begging for a match, and windows framing the marshes – than I wandered down to the village shop for milk. Enter Reg, the shopkeeper, a wiry bloke in a flat cap who looked like he’d stepped out of a Dad’s Army episode. “Fresh from the city, eh? You’ll not last a night with them screamin’ gulls.” He nodded at the horizon, where the North Sea crashed just a mile off. Reg’s a fisherman by trade, or was, till the trawlers got too pricey. Now he sells pasties and dispenses wisdom like it’s going out of fashion. “Try the samphire from the beach,” he insisted, thrusting a bag of the salty green stuff at me gratis. “Picked it meself this mornin’. Beats your fancy Waitrose rubbish.” We got chatting about the seals – dozens basking on the sandbanks at Holme-next-the-Sea, he said, “cheeky buggers stealin’ crabs right under your nose.” His laugh was a gravelly rumble, and before I knew it, I’d bought half his stock: local crab claws, Tyneside cheese, and a pint of bitter from the microbrewery up the road.

That evening, as the sun dipped low over the dunes – painting the sky all pink and gold – I nipped to the Orange Tree, the pub just a stagger away. Landlord Dave, with tattoos from his Navy days and a beard like a Brillo pad, pulled me a pint of Woodforde’s Wherry and introduced me to the locals. There was Percy, the retired postman, nursing a whisky and moaning about the tourists “boggin’ up the lanes with their bloody caravans.” And young Ellie, the barmaid with freckles and a sharp wit, who’d just come back from uni. “Dad says you’re soft southerners,” she teased, “but you’ve got the right idea comin’ here. Peace and proper chat.” We yarned for hours – about the smugglers’ tales from Shipwreck Corner, the wild ponies on the beach, and how Thornham’s oysters are the best this side of Brancaster. Percy reckoned the cottage I was in was haunted by a poacher’s ghost. “Keeps the foxes away,” he winked.

Lying in that ancient brass bed that first night, listening to the wind rustle the reeds, I had a proper moment. Back home, it’s all rush and noise – deadlines, Tube crushes, the lot. Here, with these quirky souls – Edith’s no-nonsense yarns, Reg’s salty gifts, Dave and Percy’s ribbing – I felt unplugged, real. Not a bad first day in Norfolk, pheasant chase and all. Couldn’t wait for more.