I’d just about had it with the M11 traffic snaking out of London when I took a wrong turn near Cambridge – nothing major, just a daft five-minute detour through some sleepy village that had me swearing at the satnav like it was my ex. But by the time I rolled into Old Hunstanton, the sun was dipping low over the salt marshes, and all was forgiven. Ongar Lodge, this charming little 18th-century cottage tucked away in a quiet spot just off the green, was waiting for me like an old mate with a pint. Three days in Norfolk? Aye, I was ready for some proper downtime, and from the off, it was all about the grub.

Pulling up, the first thing that hit me was the smell – that briny sea air mixed with something earthy from the nearby dunes. The cottage door creaked open to a cosy kitchen that screamed “get cooking, you lazy sod.” Exposed beams, a Rayburn cooker that looked like it’d seen more roasts than I’ve had hot dinners, and a larder stocked with basics from the local shop. I’d planned to live off pub nosh and fish suppers, but the place tempted me into playing house chef straight away. Unpacked my bags, cracked open a bottle of Norfolk cider I’d nabbed en route, and surveyed the scene. First impressions? Bloody inviting.

That evening, I wandered five minutes down to The Wash Café, a no-frills spot right by the beach huts. Sat outside as the light faded, watching gulls squabble over chips, and ordered the crab salad – fresh as you like, straight from the Hunstanton boats that morning. Sweet, meaty claws with a zingy mayo and some crisp local lettuce. Paired it with a pint of bitter from Heacham’s microbrewery, all malty and sessionable. Chatted with a couple of locals about the best whelk spots (spoiler: everywhere), and suddenly my city stress melted. Back at the lodge by nine, I faffed about in the kitchen, attempting a late-night cheese toastie on the Rayburn. Burnt the first one – typical me, too impatient – but the second was golden, with a slab of mature Norfolk cheddar that went stringy and perfect. Sat by the Aga with a cuppa, reflecting on how I never slow down enough at home. This place was forcing me to savour, one bite at a time.

Next morning, first full day, I hit the Old Hunstanton village shop – a proper old-school affair with wonky shelves groaning under jars of samphire pickle and hunks of smoked mackerel. Grabbed eggs from nearby farms, rashers of bacon dry-cured in King’s Lynn, and a loaf of granary that still smelled of the oven. Back at Ongar Lodge, the kitchen became my battlefield. Scrambled the eggs with a knob of local butter, grilled the bacon till it snapped, and fried up some black pudding I’d impulse-bought. Washed it down with builder’s tea strong enough to stand the spoon in. Sat at the scrubbed pine table overlooking the garden, sunlight streaming in, and thought, “This is living.” No rush, no emails – just the simple joy of a fry-up done right.

Lunch called for a pub crawl, Norfolk-style. Strolled to The Golden Lion, not five minutes away, a thatched beauty with beams you could bash your head on if you’re daft like me. Ploughman’s platter: chunks of tangy Lincolnshire-style cheese, pickled onions that bit back, and a pork pie so crumbly it shed everywhere. Ale was Woodforde’s Wherry, crisp and golden, straight from the taps. The barman reckoned the pie was made by his cousin down the road – you could taste the backyard pride. Back for a siesta, then evening shenanigans: I tried my hand at a crab linguine using that morning’s market haul from Hunstanton’s stalls. Chopped garlic too fine, sauce was a bit gloopy, but with a squeeze of lemon from the garden and a glass of Adnams, it was a triumph of sorts. Laughed at my own amateur hour, but honestly, it felt good – a gentle nudge that I don’t need Michelin stars to be happy.

By day three’s brekkie – smoked kippers from the village fishmonger, poached and slathered in butter – I was hooked. Ongar Lodge wasn’t just a crash pad; it was a foodie haven disguised as a cottage. Those first impressions of salty air, sizzling pans, and pub chatter? They set the tone for the best eats of my year. Norfolk’s got me sussed – next time, I’m bringing mates and a bigger appetite.