I’ll never forget the drive down to Padstow – we’d loaded up the car with enough snacks to feed a small army, only for me to realise halfway through Devon that I’d left the cool bag with all our picnic bits back on the kitchen counter. Typical me, always one step behind my own brain. Still, it gave us an excuse to pull over at a services for a dodgy pasty that tasted more like cardboard than Cornwall, laughing about it all the way as the satnav cheerfully guided us through those twisty lanes towards the coast.

By the time we rolled into Padstow, the sun was dipping low over the estuary, and any lingering grumps from the drive evaporated. Our penthouse was just 500 metres from the town centre – a sleek, recently built spot with beautiful interiors that felt like a proper treat after the road. First impressions? Spot on. Spacious, modern, with massive windows letting in that golden light, and it was dead quiet too, a peaceful retreat right in the thick of things. We dumped the bags and headed straight out, stomachs rumbling.

Padstow’s a foodie’s dream, isn’t it? We wandered down to the harbour, where the air’s thick with that salty tang mixed with fresh fish from the boats. First stop was one of Rick Stein’s places – we bagged a table at the Seafood Restaurant, and oh boy, the oysters were divine, plump and briny, followed by a whole dover sole that melted in your mouth. Washed down with a crisp Cornish white, it was the perfect welcome. My mate Dave, who fancies himself a bit of a gourmet, declared it “life-changing”, though I reckon he says that about any chippy tea.

Next morning, we hit the Saturday market in the square – stalls groaning under local cheeses, crab sandwiches, and those massive sausage rolls from the butchers. I grabbed some pasties from Ann’s Pasties (proper ones this time, lamb and mint – unreal) and a punnet of strawberries that tasted like summer. Back at the penthouse, I thought I’d channel my inner chef and try my hand at the Rick Stein Cookery School nearby. Booked a half-day course, and let’s just say my attempt at moules marinières ended up more like a watery soup. The instructor was a star, though, gently steering me away from disaster while we sipped wine and swapped stories. Gentle self-reflection moment: I’m never going to be the next Stein, but there’s joy in the faffing about, isn’t there? Especially with a sea view from the school window.

Evenings were for pubs – the London Inn for a pint and fish pie that stuck to your ribs, then the Shipwrights for crab claws and chips, overlooking the water. One night, we ferried across to Rock for their pub grub – nothing fancy, just proper hearty stuff like beer-battered haddock that had us moaning in delight. Back in Padstow, we’d stumble to the penthouse, full as ticks, collapsing with a cuppa and planning the next feast.

It was all about the eating, really – markets in the morning, courses midday, Stein-level dinners by night. Left feeling stuffed, happy, and already plotting a return. Padstow’s got me hooked.