I finally made it to Sandringham Safari in South Creake after a bit of a faff on the drive from King's Lynn. Picture this: I'd packed my little Fiat to the gills with fresh veg from a roadside stall and a bottle of Norfolk cider, only for the satnav to chuck a wobbly and send me down a muddy farm track. Twenty minutes of reversing through cow pats later, I emerged, caked in splatter, laughing at my own daftness. But oh, what a sight greeted me as I pulled up to the safari tent – this glamping gem perched in a quiet field, all canvas chic with a wood-burner and that fresh Norfolk air humming with possibility. First impressions? Pure magic for a foodie like me, especially with the promise of self-catering bliss right on tap.

We'd timed our arrival for late afternoon, stomachs rumbling from the road. Unzipping the tent door revealed a cosy kitchenette stocked with basics – tea, coffee, and a fridge begging to be filled. My mate Dave and I dashed straight to the nearby South Creake farm shop, just a cheeky five-minute drive away. It's one of those proper Norfolk treasures, shelves groaning under local cheeses, artisan breads, and jars of chutney that could make a vicar swear with delight. I grabbed a hunk of mature cheddar from the estate dairy, some smoked bacon, and a punnet of strawberries so ripe they practically burst in my hand. Dave, ever the pie man, snagged a couple of venison pasties. "This," he declared, "is holiday fuel."

Back at the tent, we fired up the hob for our first feast. I'm no Gordon Ramsay – more like a ham-fisted home cook – but I rustled up a cracking bacon sarnie with doorstep bread slathered in butter. The wood-burner crackled as we scoffed it on the decking, watching the sun dip over the fields. Norfolk's light is something else, turning everything golden, and that first bite? Salty, crispy perfection with a side of smug satisfaction. We washed it down with that cider, toasting our minor motoring mishap. Laughter bubbled up when Dave dribbled chutney down his shirt – "Safari chic," he quipped.

Evening called for pub grub, so we ambled over to The Creake Abbey Café and Farm Shop's little eatery, a stone's throw away. It's got that unpretentious vibe – think flagstone floors and locals nursing pints. We plumped for fish pie and chips, the fish fresh from the coast, flaking under a buttery mash lid. Mine came with mushy peas that were spot-on, not too vinegary. Dave went for the Norfolk platter: ham, pickles, and that same cheddar, paired with a pint of Adnams Ghost Ship. The barman recommended it, saying it's brewed not far off. We chatted with a couple of farmers about the apple harvest – turns out the orchards nearby are heaving this year. It felt proper, like slipping into Norfolk life without the commitment.

Next morning, bleary-eyed but buzzing, I tackled breakfast solo while Dave snored. The market in nearby Burnham Market (a quick hop, under five miles) was my target – Saturday's the day for it. Stalls brimmed with sausages from rare-breed pigs, jars of honey, and fresh sourdough. I haggled (badly) for a bag of crab claws and some samphire, that salty marsh veg that's pure coastal gold. Back at Sandringham Safari, my cooking attempt was ambitious: crab salad with samphire wilted in butter, on rye from the farm shop. It wobbled a bit – too much lemon zest, my bad – but paired with a flask of builder's tea, it hit the spot. Sat there in the tent's morning glow, fork in hand, I had a quiet moment of reflection. Life's too short for rubbish nosh; holidays like this remind you to savour the simple stuff, mishaps and all.

Lunch was a picnic of pasty remnants and strawberries, sprawled on the grass. By tea, we'd hit The Crown in South Creake for Sunday roast – beef from local herds, Yorkshire puds like clouds, gravy thick as treacle. We rolled home stuffed, vowing to do bugger all but digest. First impressions of Sandringham Safari? It's a food lover's dream pad, turning every meal into an event amid Norfolk's bountiful larder. Can't wait to return and botch more recipes.