We’d only just turned off the A30 when the satnav decided to play silly beggars, cheerfully directing us down a lane so narrow our wing mirrors practically kissed the hedgerows. By the time we spotted the little wooden sign for Spernenwyn we were both laughing and slightly flustered, convinced we’d end up reversing into someone’s driveway. The cottage sat just above the dunes, its whitewashed walls glowing in the late afternoon light, and the first thing that hit me was the smell of salt and warm grass drifting up from the beach path.

We lugged the bags inside, flicked on the kettle, and immediately started unpacking the cool bag we’d raided at the farm shop on the way down. Thick slices of crusty bread, a wedge of Cornish gouda and a tub of proper clotted cream were soon spread across the kitchen table while we debated what to do for tea. The owners had left a note about the honesty box at the end of the lane where locals drop off fresh crab, so we strolled down before the light faded and came back with two fat dressed crabs and a lemon. We ate them straight from the shells on the little patio, watching the sun slip behind the headland, and I don’t think anything has ever tasted quite so good after a day in the car.

Next morning we wandered into the village for the weekly market, the sort of small affair where one stall sells nothing but pasties and another is entirely given over to jam. We came away with saffron buns, a hunk of smoked mackerel and some early strawberries that were already leaking juice onto the paper bag. Back at Spernenwyn we attempted what we grandly called “lunch on the terrace,” which mostly involved me trying not to drop strawberry juice down my front while the seagulls wheeled overhead, clearly judging our picnic technique.

By evening we were ready for proper pub grub and followed the coastal path into the nearest village, shoes already full of sand. The landlord at the little stone inn greeted us like regulars, even though it was our first night, and soon we were tucking into fish pie so thick with creamy sauce it barely needed a spoon. We shared a pint of local ale that tasted faintly of the sea and spent far too long arguing whether the crumble was apple or rhubarb; in the end it didn’t matter because both were excellent.

The following day we tried our hand at cooking again, this time with some fat scallops from the fishmonger and a knob of garlic butter we’d bought at the market. The result was edible, just, though I managed to set off the smoke alarm while trying to get a decent sear. We opened the doors, wafted tea towels, and ended up eating the slightly overdone scallops on the sofa with the windows flung wide, laughing at our own optimism. It struck me then how quickly a place can feel like home when your days revolve around what’s fresh, what’s local, and whether you’ve remembered to buy milk.