I’ll never forget the drive down to Port Isaac – that winding A39 hugging the north Cornwall coast like it’s got a mind of its own. We’d set off from Bristol full of beans, me and the missus, with a boot stuffed with pasties from the services and a playlist of proper sea shanties to get us in the mood. But about an hour in, disaster struck: a rogue seagull dive-bombed our windscreen, leaving a Jackson Pollock of guano that turned the glass into a foggy mess. We pulled over near Wadebridge, laughing our socks off as I scrubbed away with a pack of wet wipes, wondering if this was the universe’s way of saying “slow down, you lot”.

By the time we crested the hill into Port Isaac, the sun was dipping low, painting the sea gold, and my heart did a little flip. I’d been buzzing about this for weeks – visions of Doc Martin’s cobbled streets and fresh crab straight from the boats. Pulling up to our holiday cottage, it was love at first sight: a cosy stone number tucked into the hillside, all whitewashed charm with a quirky pitched roof and sea views peeking through the garden. It screamed proper Cornish hideaway, the sort where you kick off your shoes and forget the world exists.

First morning, we cracked open the windows to the sound of gulls and waves crashing below – no alarm clocks here, just nature’s wake-up call. Breakfast was a faff in the compact kitchen: I burnt the toast trying to work the ancient toaster, and the missus nearly flooded the place faffing with the kettle. Cottage life chaos at its finest, but we were grinning like idiots over our mugs of builder’s tea and homemade jam from the welcome basket. We wandered down to the harbour, just a five-minute stroll, picking up crab sandwiches from one of those little beach shacks. Sat on the slipway, legs dangling, watching fishing boats bob about – simple as that, pure bliss.

Afternoons melted into lazy rambles along the coastal path towards Port Gaverne, no more than a couple of miles, stopping to skim stones and spot seals popping up like cheeky locals. One evening, we tried our hand at a pasty supper on the patio, but the wind whipped up and sent crumbs flying everywhere – me chasing napkins while she howled with laughter. It was those daft moments that made it, you know? No grand plans, just us pottering about, rediscovering that easy rhythm we’d lost in the daily grind.

Looking back, as we packed up on the last day with sand in our socks and a fridge full of leftover clotted cream, I had a proper think. We’re not spring chickens anymore, but this break reminded me why we do these getaways: not for Instagram perfection, but for the unguarded giggles, the quiet chats over a GandT as the sun sets over the Atlantic, and that feeling of coming home to yourself. Cornwall’s got that magic – we’re already plotting our return.