I’ll never forget the drive down to Porthleven – or rather, the near-disaster just outside Helston. We’d piled into the car loaded with pasties and crisps, buzzing with that holiday anticipation, windows down and radio blaring some dodgy 90s playlist. Then, bam, a rogue pheasant decided to play chicken with our front bumper. Heart in mouth, I swerved, and we ended up with feathers in the grille and me laughing hysterically while the missus clutched the dash like it was a rollercoaster. “That’s Cornwall for you,” she said, “wild from the off.” Shaken but grinning, we pressed on, the sea air already teasing us through the vents, and by the time we trundled into that quiet rural spot near Praa Sands, I was proper excited. Spotting the cottage – a cosy renovated job with a sleek modern extension – nestled among mature trees, it looked like a hug waiting to happen. Off-road parking with an EV charger? Tick. We tumbled out, bags everywhere, and those big patio doors flung open to a garden that screamed lazy afternoons.

First impressions? Spot on. Light and airy inside, with tasteful furnishings that made you want to kick off your shoes and flop. But honestly, it was the locals who turned our stay into pure gold. Cornwall’s got characters by the bucketload, and Porthleven’s no exception – quirky lot, full of tales and mischief.

Take old Reg from the hamlet, who wandered over on day one while I was faffing with the barbecue. Must’ve been pushing 80, with a face like a weathered cliff and a dog called Trevisker that looked older than him. “New ’ere, eh?” he grinned, eyeing our setup. Turned out he’d lived there since the war, knew every smuggler’s cove within a mile. Over a cuppa (his brew, strong as tar), he regaled us with stories of the great storm that battered Porthleven harbour a few years back – boats flying like kites, he said, and him rescuing a lobster pot that made him a small fortune. Laughed till my sides hurt at his yarn about the “ghost crab” that haunts Praa Sands beach. Proper spinner, but you couldn’t help loving him.

Then there was Jenna at the beach café down in Porthleven, no more than a couple of miles away. Fiery redhead with tattoos of seashells, serving up the best crab sandwiches this side of St Ives. We rocked up for lunch after a bracing walk along the cliffs – wind whipping, waves crashing like applause. “You lot from up country?” she asked, clocking our accents. What followed was half an hour of her gossip: the fisherman who swears he saw a mermaid off the harbour wall (yeah, right), and the time the village pub’s dart team took on a rival from Penzance and won by bribing the ref with moonshine. “Don’t tell the vicar,” she winked. Her laugh was infectious, and before we knew it, we’d planned a sunset pasty run with her mate, a surfer called Baz who looked like he’d been born on a board.

Even the chap at the local farm shop – Miles, with his flat cap and endless supply of dad jokes – chipped in. “Why don’t Cornish pasties ever get lost? They’ve got their filling!” Groan, but we bought half the shelf anyway. Chatting to these folks felt like slipping into a warm cardie; they made the place hum.

Sitting in the garden one evening, pint in hand, watching the sun dip over the fields, I had a proper moment. Life back home’s a whirlwind – deadlines, screens, rush. Here, with Reg’s tales echoing and Jenna’s laugh in my ears, I realised how much I miss these simple yarns, these faces that light up a stranger’s day. Porthleven didn’t just recharge the batteries; it reminded me what holidays are for. We’re going back next year, pheasants permitting.