I’ll never forget the drive down to Padstow that Friday afternoon – sat nav insisting we take some daft shortcut through Bodmin, only for us to end up behind a tractor trundling along at snail’s pace, hay baling everywhere. By the time we rolled into Rock, just across the estuary, I was starving and ready to throttle the thing. But oh, what a sight greeted us as we pulled up to this gorgeous holiday spot on the North Cornwall coast. Tucked at the start of Rock Road, it looked like the perfect coastal retreat from the off – spacious, stylish inside with that effortless flow right out to an enclosed garden. First impressions? Spot on. We dumped the bags and cracked open a bottle of local rosé before we’d even unpacked.

Anticipation had been building all week, but stepping through the door felt like slipping into someone else’s dream life. The place screamed relaxed seaside living, and with the Pityme Inn just a gentle stroll away, we knew food was going to be the star of the show. That first evening, we wandered over there for dinner – proper pub grub done right. I went for the fresh catch of the day, plump cod in a light batter with chunky chips and mushy peas that were spot-on. My mate Dave demolished a massive seafood platter, mussels and prawns galore, washed down with a pint of Tribute ale. We sat outside as the sun dipped, chatting rubbish and feeling utterly content. No faffing about with fancy reservations; just good, honest nosh.

Next morning, we hit the local markets in Padstow – a short hop across the water on the ferry from Rock, which felt like part of the adventure. The place was buzzing with stalls piled high with Cornish pasties, still warm from the oven, and slabs of fudge that could glue your teeth together. I grabbed some proper clotted cream and strawberries, dreaming of a feast back at the house. Cooking in that sleek kitchen was a joy – or so I thought. My attempt at a crab linguine went pear-shaped when I overdid the chilli flakes; ended up tasting like a vindaloo by the sea. Laughing our heads off, we salvaged it with extra cream and a side of bread from the village bakery. Dave’s better at this stuff – he whipped up a cracking steak and ale pie the next night using meat from the Padstow butchers. Tender, flaky pastry, and we ate it in the garden under the stars, hot tub bubbling away nearby (worth every penny of that extra charge, let me tell you).

We kept it local, popping into waterfront spots like the Sea Food Restaurant for a lunch of oysters and lobster – sharp, briny, and paired with a crisp picpoul. Evenings blurred into pub crawls: another go at the Pityme for Sunday roast, beef carved tableside with all the trimmings, Yorkshire puds like fluffy clouds. One night, we tried our hand at a full Cornish breakfast back home – bacon from the market, eggs from a nearby farm shop, and black pudding that had us groaning in delight. It wasn’t all gourmet; I burned the toast once, prompting a gentle moment of reflection over coffee. Here I was, mid-forties, faffing about in a holiday kitchen like a proper domestic god in training. Made me realise how rare it is to slow down and just savour the simple joy of a good meal with mates, no distractions.

By the end of the week, we’d eaten our way through every pub and eatery within spitting distance, bellies full and hearts happier. If you’re after a base for feasting on Cornwall’s finest, this is it – pure bliss.