I’ll never forget the drive down to Par – that classic Cornish road trip where the satnav decides to have a midlife crisis just as you hit the A390. Mine cheerfully guided us into a narrow lane that turned out to be a farm track, complete with a flock of bemused sheep staring us down. Heart in mouth, we reversed out amid much laughter and a few choice words about technology, finally rolling into the village with the sea winking at us from around the corner. The anticipation was buzzing; after months of grey skies back home, Cornwall felt like the perfect reset button.

Pulling up to our ground-floor garden apartment – one of those posh little one-bedders in a smart collection of four, each done up with real flair by some talented designer – I was chuffed to bits. Tucked away in the heart of Par, it’s literally moments from the beach, with private parking that meant no faffing about for a spot. Stepping inside, the open-plan space hit me like a sigh of relief: light, restful, and dead easy to potter around in. Perfect for couples like us wanting to switch off and breathe that salty air.

But let’s be honest, the real star of the show was the food – or should I say, our heroic attempts at Cornish feasting. First morning, I nipped down to the local market in Par, just a stroll away, where stalls were heaving with fresh crab from St Austell Bay, plump strawberries, and pasties that could make you weep. Grabbed some mackerel too, dead fresh, and back at the apartment I fancied myself as a telly chef. Fried them up with a bit of lemon and new potatoes – turned out alright, though I did set off the smoke alarm briefly. Laughing about it over brekkie on the little patio, watching the world go by, felt like proper holiday magic.

Evenings were pub time, naturally. The Cuddra Inn, a proper local just up the road, became our haunt. First night, we demolished a proper fish supper – golden batter, chips fat as fingers, mushy peas on the side – washed down with a crisp Cornish ale. Chatted with regulars about the best spots for clams (turns out the beach shacks nearby do cracking ones), and the landlady slipped us a recipe for her seafood chowder. Next day, I tried recreating it: cream, smoked haddock from the market, a sneaky splash of white wine. Not quite pub perfection, but we scoffed it with crusty bread from the village bakery, pretending we were pros.

One lunch, we wandered to the Rashleigh Arms by the harbour – stone’s throw from Par beach. Proper seafood platter: prawns, scallops, whelks that had us giggling at the effort to extract them. I had a moment there, fork midway to mouth, realising how daft I’d been rushing life lately. This – simple, salty, shared plates under the sun – was what I’d needed. No grand plans, just good grub and good company.

Back at the apartment, we’d cobble together tapas-style suppers: local cheeses, olives, and leftover pasties turned into a fry-up. Cooking mishaps aside – like the time my pasty filling went everywhere – it was bliss. Par’s rhythm, with its markets and pubs feeding the soul, made it the ideal spot to exhale. Can’t wait to go back for more.