I’ll never forget the drive down to Looe – we’d loaded up the car with enough snacks to feed a small army, only for the sat-nav to chuck us into a cheeky detour through some narrow lanes that had me white-knuckling the wheel. A rogue branch scraped the side mirror, nothing major, but it was a proper comedy moment as we laughed it off with the windows down, Proper Job blasting from the speakers. Still, as we crested the hill and caught that first glimpse of the East Looe River twinkling below, all was forgiven. The anticipation built – would this waterside spot live up to the pics? Mate, it exceeded them.

Pulling up to our chic three-storey holiday home on the fringes of Looe, I was gobsmacked. Those glass-fronted terraces overlooking the river screamed relaxation, and spotting the hot tub tucked away had us grinning like kids. It sleeps six comfortably, perfect for our group of mates, and it’s less than a mile from the sandy beach with its iconic Banjo Pier. We dumped the bags and cracked open a bottle of fizz on the terrace, toasting the views as the sun dipped low. First impressions? Spot on – it felt like our own little slice of Cornwall heaven.

But let’s be honest, the real star of the show was the food. Looe’s a proper foodie haven, and we dived in headfirst. First morning, we wandered into town for the weekly market – stalls groaning under fresh Looe fish, plump strawberries from nearby polytunnels, and pasties that smelled like sin. I grabbed some mackerel and samphire, dreaming of chef status. Back at the house, I had a bash at cooking it up on the sleek kitchen hob – seared the fish with local butter, chucked in garlic and a splash of white wine from the offy. It wasn’t MasterChef, but served on the terrace with the river breeze, it tasted like a triumph. We paired it with crusty bread from the bakery, slathered in clotted cream – pure indulgence.

Evenings were pub central. The Ship Inn down by the harbour became our local – we demolished platters of battered haddock and chips, washed down with pints of Rattler. One night, we tried the mussels at The Castle Inn, steamed in cider with chunks of sourdough for dipping. Heaven. I even attempted a Cornish-style supper back home: roast leg of local lamb from the butcher’s, new potatoes, and a messy gravy. It was a bit lumpy, mind – gentle reminder that I’m no Jamie Oliver, more like a happy amateur faffing about. Laughing over my kitchen disasters bonded us, though, hot tub bubbling away post-meal with more fizz.

We hit The Sardine Factory for a posh fish supper one evening – razor clams and lobster ravioli that had us moaning in delight. Markets kept us stocked: crab claws for salads, fudge for pud. Every meal felt tied to Looe’s rhythm – fresh, unfussy, unforgettable. Self-reflecting over breakfast on the terrace (smoked kippers, naturally), I realised it’s these simple, shared feasts that make a holiday magic. No five-star restaurant beats cooking with mates, river views, and a side of daft mishaps. Looe, you’ve ruined posh dining for me forever – in the best way.