I’ll never forget the drive down to Truro – we’d packed the car to the brim with cool bags and that one dodgy picnic hamper that always smells faintly of last summer’s cheese. Halfway through Devon, the satnav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us on a detour through some narrow lanes that had me gripping the wheel like it was a lifeline. A sheep decided to photobomb our progress, staring us down until we inched past, hearts racing. But as we crested the hill into Cornwall, the anticipation bubbled up – that first glimpse of the coastline, the promise of pasties and pints. By the time we rolled up to the property, a cosy terraced house tucked away in a quiet spot, I was grinning ear to ear. It looked perfect: welcoming lights in the windows, a little garden patch out front with herbs waving hello.

First impressions? Spot on. We dumped the bags and raided the kitchen straight away – it was kitted out nicely, with everything you’d need for a proper Cornish feast. No faffing about with subpar gear here. That evening, we wandered just down the road to a local pub, the kind with low ceilings and locals propping up the bar. I went for the fish and chips, golden and flaky, with mushy peas that hit the spot after our mishap-filled drive. My mate opted for a steak pie, and we washed it down with a couple of local ales that tasted like they’d been brewed with sea air. Chatting to the barman about the best spots nearby, we felt right at home already.

Next morning, it was market time. Truro’s got that brilliant little market vibe – stalls heaving with fresh crab, just-caught mackerel, and pasties stuffed with proper steak and veg. I nabbed some sconks (that’s what they call those chunky pasties down here) and a punnet of strawberries that were so sweet they didn’t need anything but a quick rinse. Back at the house, I fancied myself as a chef and tried knocking up a seafood chowder. Chopped onions sweating in butter, chucked in the fish with cream and a splash of cider from the offie – it wasn’t half bad, though I did overdo the garlic and spent the afternoon breathing fire. We laughed it off over lunch on the patio, the sun warming our faces while we demolished it with crusty bread from the bakery round the corner.

Evenings were for pub-hopping within easy walking distance. One night, we hit a gem serving platters of local cheeses – crumbly mature cheddar from nearby farms, paired with chutneys that had a proper tang. Another, it was Sunday roast heaven: roast beef with Yorkshire puds the size of hubcaps, gravy so rich it could’ve been bottled. I even managed a decent clotted cream tea attempt one afternoon, whipping up scones that puffed up nicely (beginner’s luck, probably). Sitting there with a pot of tea, cream sliding off the scone onto my plate, I had a quiet moment thinking how daft it is that we city folk rush about so much. These simple meals, shared with good company, they’re what recharge the batteries, aren’t they?

By the end of the week, we’d eaten our way through enough saffron buns, fudge, and fish suppers to sink a ship. That house was our perfect base – no pretensions, just brilliant food and that laid-back Cornish welcome. Can’t wait to go back for more.