I’ll never forget the drive down to St Ives – we’d packed the car with enough snacks to feed a small army, but halfway there, just past Hayle, the satnav decided to have a midlife crisis and sent us looping round a one-way system that wasn’t even on the map. Cue mild panic, a bit of bickering with my other half, and me yelling at the dashboard like it was personal. But honestly, once we crested that final hill and caught our first glimpse of the glittering bay, all was forgiven. The sea sparkled like it was showing off, and my heart did a little flip – this was going to be proper.

We finally rolled up to our ground-floor apartment in a quiet cul-de-sac at the bottom of a steep hill, knackered but buzzing. It was just the ticket: cosy, welcoming, with that 'secret' garden gate right there for nipping down to the beach in minutes. Golden sands and sea swims on tap? Yes please. We dumped the bags and headed straight out – no faffing about unpacking when there’s food to hunt.

First stop was the harbour for fish and chips from a no-nonsense shack that’s been frying since my gran’s day. Crispy batter, fat chunks of cod, and those proper mushy peas – we ate them on Porthmeor Beach, sand between our toes, watching surfers carve up the waves. Heaven. That evening, we wandered into the Sloop Inn, one of those classic St Ives pubs with low ceilings and salty old locals nursing pints. I went for the seafood platter – prawns, mussels, a whole crab leg – washed down with a crisp Cornish lager. My partner demolished a massive haddock while we chatted to a fisherman about the day’s catch. Proper chat, that.

Next morning, I fancied playing house chef. The local market on Wharf Road was a goldmine: stalls piled high with fresh mackerel, plump tomatoes, crusty pasties, and clotted cream straight from the farm. I grabbed some saffron buns too – those spicy, fruity beauties that smell like Christmas. Back at the flat, I attempted a Cornish bouillabaisse with the mackerel and some fennel from the veg stall. It wasn’t exactly Michelin-star, more like a hearty mush with a side of smoke alarm, but slathered on thick bread with a dollop of aioli? We scoffed the lot on the patio, laughing at my 'chef' disasters. Self-reflection moment: I’m no Jamie Oliver, but there’s something dead satisfying about faffing in a holiday kitchen with sea air wafting in.

Lunches became a ritual – crab sandwiches from the beach hut at Porthminster, or a quick pasty from the bakery on Fore Street, flaky pastry oozing steak and spuds. Evenings? The Hub Steps for a pint and plates of battered squid at the lifeboat station pub, or treating ourselves to crab linguine at a tiny spot tucked by the harbour. One night, we splurged on a sunset seafood feast at Porthgwidden – oysters, scallops, the works – toes in the sand, bellies full.

By the end of the week, I’d piled on half a stone from all the feasting, but who cares? That apartment was the perfect base for gorging on Cornwall’s finest without a care. I’m already plotting a return – next time, I’m mastering that bouillabaisse.