I’ll never forget the drive down to that tucked-away spot near Praze-an-Beeble – we’d loaded up the car with enough pasties and crisps to see us through a siege, only for the sat-nav to chuck a wobbly just past Redruth. It decided a narrow lane was a shortcut, and there we were, inching past hedges that scraped the mirrors like they had a personal grudge. Heart in mouth, but laughing about it by the time we emerged, dusty and triumphant, into the wooded valley. The anticipation built as we spotted the cottage at the foot of it all, right by Clowance Bridge in quiet little Crowan – this cosy character place that looked like it’d been waiting just for us, promising lazy days and that wood-fired hot tub glowing invitingly in the garden.

First impressions? Spot on. It felt like slipping into a warm embrace – rural bliss, half a mile from Praze village, with mist rolling over the fields at dawn. We wasted no time firing up the hot tub for a soak under the stars that first night, Prosecco in hand (local stuff from the offie, naturally). But let’s be honest, the real star was the food. This stay turned us into proper Cornish gourmands, faffing about with feasts and pub crawls that had us waddling back happily each evening.

We kicked off with a rummage through the nearby Praze market – nothing fancy, just a Saturday morning affair with stalls heaving with fresh veg, clotted cream straight from the farm, and those massive pasties from the bakery van. I grabbed courgettes, new potatoes, and a slab of saffron cake that didn’t even make it home. Back at the cottage, my cooking attempt was a classic: attempted a seafood stew with crab from the fishmonger in Camborne (a quick five-minute drive). Sounded brilliant – chunks of local monkfish, prawns, and heaps of garlic – but I overseasoned it something rotten. Tasted like the sea had a grudge against my palate. We laughed it off over bowls of it, salvaging the mood with hunks of bread from the village shop. Lesson learned: less is more when you’re playing MasterChef in a holiday kitchen.

Pubs became our religion. The Clowance Inn, just down the lane, was perfection – proper ales like Sharps Doom Bar on tap, and their fish and chips? Golden batter, fat chips, peas mushy as they should be. We holed up there twice, once for a ploughman’s lunch with crumbly cheddar that paired stupidly well with the cider. Another night, we wandered to the Queen’s Head in Praze for a Sunday roast – beef so tender it flopped off the bone, Yorkshire puds the size of hubcaps, and gravy that could revive the dead. I even tried my hand at a full English one morning, sourcing bacon from the butcher’s in town; rashers sizzling while we sipped tea overlooking the valley. Managed not to burn the place down, which felt like a win.

That hot tub saw its fair share of post-feast reflections too. Soaking there one misty morning, belly full from a breakfast of local eggs scrambled with smoked mackerel, I had a proper moment – you know, pondering how these simple eats and rural calm recharge you more than any spa. No big epiphanies, just a quiet grin at how daft it is rushing about back home when this – mates, grub, and a good soak – is what life’s about. We left fatter, happier, and already plotting the next trip for more of the same. If you’re after Cornwall without the crowds, this is your spot.