We’d barely turned off the A389 when the satnav decided we were going on a scenic detour through a farm track that was, frankly, not made for a little hatchback loaded with cool bags. By the time we bumped back onto tarmac, half a quiche had slid onto the passenger footwell and the dog was giving us that look of deep disappointment. Still, the first glimpse of An Drowes made up for the mess; a low, whitewashed cottage tucked just behind the dunes, with the tide already turning and that unmistakable Padstow smell of salt and frying fish drifting up from the harbour.

We dumped the bags, rescued what was left of lunch, and wandered straight into town before we’d even unpacked properly. The Tuesday market was still in full swing along the quay, so we joined the queue at the fish stall and came away with a bag of fresh mackerel and a couple of fat scallops “for later”. That set the tone for the whole stay—most of our plans seemed to revolve around what we were going to eat next.

The first night we tried the Golden Lion, squeezed onto a bench by the window with pints of Tribute and plates of proper scampi and chips. The portions were generous enough that we had to ask for an extra dish for the scraps, which the dog accepted like a royal favour. Next morning we woke to the sound of gulls and decided to attempt breakfast in the little kitchen at An Drowes. I’d bought local sausages and some of those thick slices of bread from the bakery on the corner, but the grill decided to go on strike halfway through, leaving us with one perfectly browned banger and another that looked like it had survived a shipwreck. We ate them anyway, standing by the open door with the sea breeze cutting through the smoke.

By midday we were back on the harbour front, this time at Rojano’s for wood-fired pizzas that arrived blistering hot and far too quickly for sensible eating. We lingered over a shared tiramisu, watching the boats bob while a toddler tried to feed a seagull a crust and got told off by his gran. Later, we popped into the off-licence for a bottle of Cornish rosé and some mussels, planning a civilised supper back at the cottage. The reality involved a saucepan that boiled over twice and a small flood on the worktop, but the mussels tasted of the sea and the wine helped us laugh it off.

What struck me, once the plates were cleared and we sat outside with coffee, was how easily the days slipped into this rhythm of markets, pub lunches and slightly chaotic cooking attempts. The mishap on the way in had set a gentle tone: nothing was going to be perfect, but everything was going to be edible, and that felt like exactly the right note for a few days by the Cornish coast.