I’ll never forget the drive down to Porthleven – that classic Cornish road trip where you think you’ve got it all planned, only for the sat-nav to chuck us into a narrow lane behind a tractor crawling at snail’s pace. We were starving by the time we spotted the sea, my mate Dave moaning about missing lunch, but honestly, it just built the anticipation. Pulling up to this stylish ground-floor apartment right in the heart of the bustling fishing village felt like striking gold. First impressions? Spot on – bright, airy open-plan living space that screamed “relax here”, with a cracking kitchen kitted out with all the gear, plus a utility room that even had a washer-dryer for our sandy beach towels. Perfect for a couple of lads like us pretending to be proper holidaymakers.

We dumped the bags and straight into food mode, naturally. First stop was the local harbour market, just a stroll away – fresh crab, plump prawns, and those glistening mackerel that the fishermen were still gutting. Bargain of the day: a kilo of seafood for peanuts. Back at the flat, I fancied myself as the next Jamie Oliver, firing up the hob for a seafood feast. Big mistake. My paella attempt turned into a smoky disaster – rice stuck like glue, and Dave’s “chef’s kiss” was more of a polite cough. Laughing our heads off, we salvaged it with some lemon and called it “rustic fusion”. Ate it at that gorgeous dining table, windows flung open to the sound of gulls and waves. Proper holiday vibes.

Evenings were pub heaven. The Ship Inn down by the harbour became our local – pint of Proper Job, then devouring their fish and chips that could feed a family. Crispiest batter ever, with mushy peas that hit the spot after a day pounding the coastal path. One night, we hit the Fisherman’s Arms for a curry night special – lamb rogan josh so tender it melted, washed down with a cheeky Doom Bar. They do these massive platters too, loaded with local cheeses from the market and crusty bread. I overdid it, waddling back to the flat feeling like I’d swallowed a beach ball. Self-reflection moment: maybe at my age, I should pace the pints and portions, but where’s the fun in that?

Markets were our daily pilgrimage. Porthleven’s Tuesday one had pasties from the bakery van – Cornish beef ones, steaming and flaky, miles better than any chain. We grabbed veg for the kitchen experiments: new potatoes, sweetcorn, and herbs that made my next fry-up (success this time!) taste garden-fresh. Even tried cooking a full English with local sausages – bingo, no disasters. Breakfast on the balcony overlooking the harbour, coffee brewing away, watching fishing boats unload the catch. Bliss.

Honestly, it was all about the eating here. That kitchen saw more action than a seaside arcade – from botched risottos to triumphant pasty bakes using market spoils. Pub grub kept us coming back, each one with its own twist on Cornish classics like stargazy pie (minus the staring heads, thank goodness). Left a few pounds heavier, but with memories of laughter, full bellies, and that gentle reminder that life’s too short for rubbish food. Can’t wait to go back.