We set off from the station with high hopes and a bag of pasties that were meant to tide us over, only to discover at Truro that I’d managed to leave the cottage keys on the train seat. After a frantic dash back along the platform and a very patient guard fishing them out from behind a seat, we finally rattled along the narrow lanes towards 2 Cliff Cottages. By the time the whitewashed walls came into view, the pasties were stone-cold and my pride was thoroughly dented, but the first glimpse of the sea glinting just beyond the garden fence made the whole drama feel suddenly small.

The cottage sat snug against the cliff path, its little kitchen already stocked with the basics we’d ordered ahead. We dropped our bags and headed straight out again, lured by the promise of something hot and proper. The nearest pub, barely ten minutes’ stroll along the coastal track, welcomed us with the smell of gravy and the low murmur of locals comparing crab catches. We ordered thick slices of ham, buttered new potatoes and a jug of cider that tasted faintly of apples left too long in the sun. Between mouthfuls we watched the light fade over the bay and decided tomorrow would be the day we finally cooked something ourselves.

Back at the cottage the next morning, the tiny kitchen suddenly felt ambitious. I’d pictured fresh fish landed that dawn, perhaps a quick grill with lemon and herbs from the pot by the door. Instead I managed to over-boil the new potatoes until they collapsed into something closer to mash and then forgot the salt entirely. We laughed it off, scraped what we could onto plates, and carried them outside to eat on the bench overlooking the beach. Seagulls wheeled overhead, clearly unimpressed, while we made do with extra butter and the last of the cider.

By midday we were craving something we hadn’t ruined ourselves, so we wandered down to the little Saturday market that sets up near the harbour. Stalls groaned with crab claws, saffron buns and wheels of Cornish gouda. We bought a couple of dressed crabs and a crusty loaf, then stopped at the bakery next door for a round of saffron buns still warm from the oven. Sitting on the harbour wall, legs dangling above the water, we picked at the sweet-spiced buns and decided this counted as research rather than greed.

Evening found us back at the pub, this time attempting to look like we belonged. The landlord remembered us from the night before and slid over two portions of fish pie without even asking. Creamy, flecked with parsley and topped with the crispiest mash, it was the meal we’d been trying – and failing – to recreate in the cottage kitchen. Over second helpings we swapped stories with a retired fisherman about the best mackerel spots off the point, and I realised how quickly strangers become neighbours when there’s good food on the table.

On our last morning we made one final attempt at domestic glory: scrambled eggs with the leftover crab meat stirred through at the end. It wasn’t fancy, but it was ours, eaten on the doorstep while the tide crept in. Between bites I thought about how much of any holiday is really just the search for the next decent meal, and how lucky we were that this little stretch of coast kept offering them up so readily.