We’d barely made it out of the car before the first mishap struck. I’d parked a little too confidently on the narrow slope of Arwenack Street, and the boot lid sprang open on its own, sending a bag of Cornish pasties tumbling onto the pavement like edible tumbleweeds. A helpful neighbour retrieved one before it could roll into the harbour, and we all laughed a bit too loudly for newcomers. Still, it set the tone: this was going to be a weekend ruled by food, not by plans.

The cottage itself felt instantly welcoming, all low ceilings and the faint smell of woodsmoke lingering from the Rayburn. We dropped our bags and headed straight back out, drawn by the promise of something warm and local. The Ship Inn was only a couple of minutes’ walk, its windows already fogged from the inside. We squeezed onto a bench near the fire and ordered the seafood chowder with thick slices of granary bread. It arrived steaming, flecked with dill and chunks of whatever had come off the boats that morning. My partner declared it “proper,” which in our house counts as high praise.

The next morning we woke to the sound of gulls and the low murmur of the tide turning. Rather than drive anywhere, we wandered down to the little Saturday market that sets up along the harbour wall. Stalls offered everything from fresh crab to jars of homemade piccalilli, and we came away with a paper bag of saffron buns still warm from the oven and a wedge of Yarg that the stallholder wrapped in dock leaves. Back at the cottage we made a slapdash lunch of crab sandwiches, the mayonnaise bought from the village shop because neither of us could be trusted with making it from scratch.

By evening we were determined to cook properly. The kitchen had a sturdy electric hob and a wide windowsill perfect for resting hot pans. We tried our hand at a simple fish pie using hake and prawns from the fishmonger, topping it with mash that refused to stay smooth no matter how vigorously we whisked. It came out of the oven slightly lopsided but tasted far better than it looked, especially washed down with pints from the local brewery we’d picked up earlier. Sitting at the scrubbed pine table with the harbour lights twinkling through the rain-spotted window, I found myself wondering why we so rarely make the effort to cook like this at home. Perhaps it takes the salt air and a wonky little kitchen to remind you that simple food, eaten slowly, is sometimes the whole point of getting away.