I’ll never forget the drive down to Padstow – or rather, the bit just before St Merryn. We’d been buzzing with anticipation, windows down, singing along to some terrible 90s playlist, dreaming of pasties and pints by the sea. Then, bam, a wrong turn off the A39 had us ploughing through a narrow lane that felt more like a goat track. The SatNav lost its marbles, and we ended up in a muddy layby, laughing our heads off as I tried to reverse without scraping the hedges. Half an hour later, we rolled into the village, hearts still racing, but what a first impression! This ground-floor apartment, tucked right in the heart of pretty St Merryn, felt like an instant hug – cosy, welcoming, and dead central for everything we craved.

From the off, it was all about the food. We’d stocked up at the Padstow Farmers’ Market on the Saturday morning – just a quick hop away – piling our bags with fresh crab, plump strawberries, and loaves of sourdough that smelled like heaven. I’m no chef, mind, but with that little kitchen staring me down, I fancied myself as the next Rick Stein. First night, I attempted a seafood linguine with the market’s catch. It started promisingly – garlic sizzling, wine deglazed – but somehow morphed into a garlicky mush. Still, we scoffed it on the patio with a bottle of Cornish rosé, toasting our culinary disaster. “Close enough,” we chuckled, scraping the plates clean.

The next day, we wandered into Padstow proper for proper sustenance. Stein’s Fish and Chips hit the spot – crispy batter, fat chips, and mushy peas that transported us straight to chippy nirvana. We queued like locals, chatting with a couple from Trevone who swore by the vinegar splash. Evenings were for pubs: the London Inn in St Merryn for a cheeky pint of Tribute and a ploughman’s that could feed a family, all hearty cheddar and pickle. One night, we pushed the boat out at Prawn on the Green – seafood platters piled high with oysters, prawns, and lobster tails. Divine, though I did have a moment of quiet reflection over my empty wallet, wondering if I’d ever learn to budget for holidays like this.

Back at the flat, mornings kicked off with market-bought eggs scrambled with smoked mackerel, washed down with strong builder’s tea. We’d chat plans over brekkie: lunch at the Padstow Pop-Up Seafood Kitchen for fresh langoustines grilled with chilli and lime? Tick. Another bash at cooking – this time, a pasty from the market’s Cornish pasty stall, reheated with some dodgy oven timing that left it a tad soggy. Laughable, really. It made me think – holidays aren’t about perfection; they’re about these daft attempts that end up tasting better for the stories.

By week’s end, we’d devoured enough clotted cream fudge and crab sandwiches to sink a ship, but what a way to go. That apartment was our perfect pitstop – close enough to Padstow’s foodie frenzy without the hustle, letting us feast like kings on a budget. If you’re after a base for beachy days bookended by brilliant eats, this corner of Cornwall’s got it in spades. We’re already plotting a return.