I’ll never forget the drive down to Porthleven – we’d loaded up the car with enough snacks to feed a small army, but halfway through Devon, the sat nav decided to have a midlife crisis and sent us on a detour through some winding lanes that felt like they hadn’t seen daylight since the war. Cue mild panic, a hastily grabbed pasty from a service station (not the best, mind), and me swearing I’d never trust tech again. But as we finally rolled into that gorgeous Cornish stretch near Porthleven, with the sea peeking out and the air thick with salt, all was forgiven. Spotting our barn conversion holiday let tucked away in a quiet hamlet just a couple of miles from the old market town of Penryn, my heart did a little flip. It looked proper idyllic, reverse-level design with those massive windows promising views over the reservoir – perfect for a week of proper unwinding.

First impressions? Spot on. Stepping inside, it was spacious and cosy in that effortlessly stylish way, with four bedrooms kitted out just right for our lot (zip-link beds were a godsend when the kids fancied twins one night and kings the next). But let’s be honest, the real star was the kitchen – huge, gleaming, and begging for some culinary experiments. We’d arrived buzzing with anticipation for all the local grub, and Porthleven didn’t disappoint. That first evening, we cracked open some pasties from the village bakery down the road – proper ones, flaky pastry stuffed with beef skirt and swede, miles better than the motorway rubbish. Sat on the terrace watching the sun dip, munching away, it felt like we’d struck gold.

The next day, we wandered into Penryn’s market – a proper Cornish gem, stalls heaving with fresh crab, plump strawberries from the Helford River farms, and wheels of local cheese that could make you weep. I loaded up on mackerel, some smoked haddock, and a punnet of samphire, dreaming of chef status. Back at the cottage, my attempt at a seafood chowder turned into a hilarious lumpy disaster – too much cream, not enough stirring, and the kids rechristened it “mum’s mystery mush”. Laughing over it with a bottle of local Roskilly’s cider, I had one of those moments: why do I always think I’m Jamie Oliver on holiday? Still, it tasted of effort, and we polished it off before heading to the nearby pub for pints and proper fish suppers.

Pub crawls became our rhythm. The local in Porthleven does a cracking Sunday roast – tender topside of beef, Yorkshire puds like pillows, and gravy that’s basically liquid hug. Another night, we tried the harbourside spot for crab claws and chips, washed down with a crisp Cornish pale ale. One rainy afternoon, we stayed in and nailed a simple pasta with that market pesto from Trebah Gardens herbs (a quick drive away), pretending we were telly chefs. The en-suites meant no morning queues, so we could linger over brekkies of local bacon butties and eggs from nearby farms.

By week’s end, stuffed to the gills and a stone heavier, I reflected that holidays like this aren’t about fancy holidays – it’s the joy of faffing in a brilliant kitchen, market hauls turning into feasts, and pub chats with locals about the best pasty fillings. Porthleven’s food scene had us hooked; we’re already plotting a return for more.