I’ll never forget the drive down to Hayle in Cornwall – we’d packed the car to the brim with cool bags of fresh veg from the allotment and a bottle of prosecco for the arrival cheers, but about 20 minutes from the turning, I realised I’d left the hob scraper thingy at home. Proper daft moment, faffing about at a services trying to buy a replacement with a toddler in tow, but it just added to the holiday buzz, you know?

Pulling up to our luxury three-bed holiday home, the anticipation was real – we’d been dreaming of this cosy, modern spot with its sea glimpses and that perfect family setup. First impressions? Spot on. Sleek kitchen begging for some culinary experiments, comfy sofas for post-pudding slumps, and a garden nook for al fresco brekkies. We cracked open that fizz and tucked into cheese toasties while unpacking, already plotting the week’s feasts.

Right from day one, it was all about the food. Hayle’s got that proper Cornish vibe, and we hit the ground running with a mooch to the local market on the Tuesday. Fresh crab straight from the boats, pasties the size of my forearm from Philps, and buckets of strawberries that tasted like summer. I grabbed a load of mackerel too, dead cheap and shiny as new pennies. Back at the house, I had a bash at grilling them with lemon and herbs – turned out alright, though I slightly overdid the first batch and it stuck to the pan like glue. Laughing about it over a piccalilli side, we agreed it was better than any restaurant ponce.

Pub grub became our ritual. The Cornish Arms down the road was a gem – we piled in for their Sunday roast, where the beef just melted and the Yorkshires were puffed up like proud balloons. I went for the veggie option one night, a massive mushroom Wellington that had me eyeing up seconds, and the kids demolished fish and chips with mushy peas. Another fave was the Bucket of Hayle, all cosy with beams (sorry, couldn’t resist) and a beer garden where we nursed pints of local Skinner's while waiting for crab linguine. Proper hearty portions, none of that fiddly tasting-menu nonsense.

Midweek, I got ambitious in the kitchen. Armed with clotted cream from the farm shop and scones from the market bakery, we had a cream tea that rivalled any posh café. My attempt at a pasty from scratch? Dough was a bit stubborn, filling spilled everywhere, but baked up golden and we scoffed them hot on the terrace with a side of kettle chips. One evening, after a rainy walk along the estuary, we did a seafood boil – prawns, mussels from the fishmonger, new pots – simple, steaming, and utterly delicious. The house smelled divine for hours.

Reflecting on it now, lounging with a coffee and the papers that last morning, I realised this holiday wasn’t just about scoffing (though we did plenty). It was the joy of pottering in that brilliant kitchen, turning market hauls into memories, and sharing those wonky home-cooked wins. Cornwall’s food scene fed our souls as much as our bellies – can’t wait to go back for more.