I’ll never forget the drive down to that stunning bit of Cornish coast near St Levan – the satnav had us veering off down some tiny lane that turned into a single-track muddle, and wouldn’t you know it, we got properly wedged behind a tractor doing about 2mph. Me, swearing under my breath (well, quietly to myself), and my other half laughing her head off. But as we finally emerged, the sea sparkling below those rugged cliffs, all that stress melted away. We were buzzing with anticipation – visions of pasties and pints, lazy suppers, and maybe even me channeling my inner chef.

Pulling up to the property, it was love at first sight. This beautifully restored and converted gem is an idyllic retreat, perfect for couples craving a bit of relaxation, peace, and quiet. Tucked away in one of Cornwall’s most beautiful coastal spots, it felt like our own private haven, with everything we needed to unwind.

First things first, we dashed to nearby St Buryan for supplies. That little village shop is a goldmine – fresh bread still warm from the oven, local cheeses that could make you weep, and the creamiest clotted cream you’ve ever seen. I grabbed some mackerel from the fishmonger’s slab, dead set on impressing with a seaside barbecue. Back at the cottage, I fired up the grill, slathered those beauties in garlic butter (a bit too much, mind – it was more grease-fest than gourmet), and we scoffed them with crusty rolls and a crisp white from the offy. Not half bad for a city lad who usually lives on takeaways.

Evenings were for the pubs, and oh boy, did we hit the jackpot. The Logan Rock Inn, just a short stroll away down the cliffs, became our local. Proper proper – we started with platters of fresh oysters, briny and perfect with a squeeze of lemon, followed by the catch of the day in a light batter that didn’t need a chip butty to compete. Pints of proper ale, the kind that tastes of the land, and a cheeky pudding of sticky toffee that had us both groaning in delight. One night, I tried to keep up with the locals’ stories of smuggling wrecks, but ended up spilling half my pint down my shirt. Classy.

Markets were the highlight, though. We timed it for Penzance on a Wednesday, stocking up on artisan breads, smoked fish, and veg so vibrant it hurt. I even attempted a pasty from scratch – mince, spuds, swede, the lot. Pastry was a disaster (think more pancake than crimped perfection), but with some gravy and a side of piccalilli from the jar, it was edible. Laughed about it over brekkie the next day, munching on sausages from the butcher and pondering how I’ve got two left feet in the kitchen. Makes you reflect, doesn’t it? All that faffing about with food, yet it’s the simplest shared meals that stick.

Suppers blurred into beach picnics – crab sandwiches with mayo, washed down with cider from the farm shop. We’d wander back sated, collapsing by the fire with cheese boards and a bottle of red. No fancy restaurants needed; this spot’s all about that local grub life. Left feeling fuller in every sense, already plotting the next trip. Cornwall, you’ve ruined shop-bought pasties for me forever.