I’ll never forget the drive down to St Ives – or rather, the moment we took a wrong turn just past Redruth and ended up in a queue of caravans crawling along the A30 like they were auditioning for a snail race. My mate Dave was navigating on his phone, swearing it was a shortcut, but after 20 minutes of hedge-trimming at 10mph, we were both laughing at our daftness. Still, by the time we crested the hill into Carbis Bay, the sun was dipping low over the sea, turning everything golden, and my heart did a little flip. We’d made it, and pulling up to this cracking holiday spot – a sleek modern retreat sleeping four, perched right above the coastline with a lounge that flows out to a glass balcony – it was love at first sight. Those views over Porthminster Beach to Godrevy Lighthouse? Pure magic. We cracked open a couple of tins on the balcony that first evening, toasting to no more wrong turns.

From the off, it was all about the food down here – St Ives does it like nowhere else. First morning, we wandered down to the beach and straight into Porthminster Café for their legendary crab sandwiches. Fresh off the boat, slathered in mayo on proper crusty bread, with a side of salty chips overlooking the waves. I could’ve eaten three, but saved room for the farmers’ market in town. Tuesday’s the day for it on the Wharf, a riot of stalls heaving with local cheeses, plump strawberries from nearby Polyrran, and hunks of saffron cake that taste like Cornwall in every bite. We loaded up on pasties from Phil’s – proper ones, beef and spud oozing out – and some fresh mackerel for later.

Back at the flat, I fancied myself a chef. With that infinity balcony begging for al fresco dining, I fired up the hob for a go at pan-fried mackerel with new potatoes and samphire foraged in my dreams (okay, bought from the market). Dave hovered, offering unhelpful advice like “more salt, mate,” while I juggled pans and nearly set off the smoke alarm. It was a right mess – fish a tad overdone, spuds mushier than my nan’s – but eaten out there with the sea breeze and a bottle of Cornish Rattler, it tasted like Michelin-star effort. We chuckled over it, me admitting I’m more eater than cook, and how these holidays remind you it’s the faffing about that makes memories stick.

Evenings were pub perfection. The Hub down in Carbis Bay became our local – we propped up the bar for plates of fish and chips so crisp they shattered, chased with a pint of Skinner’s Betty Stogs. One night, we ambled along the coastal path to The Sloop in St Ives, squeezing into a corner for their seafood platters: prawns, scallops, and mussels in garlic, all washed down with Jail Ale. Simple, hearty grub that hits different with an ocean view. We even tried cooking breakfast one hungover morning – bacon sarnies with eggs from the market – but ended up at the Beach Café for their full Cornish instead, vowing to stick to takeaways next time.

Those few days were a proper feast for the soul, all centred on munching our way through St Ives’ bounty. Sat on that balcony now in my mind’s eye, watching the sea shift colours, I reckon the best holidays are the ones where you eat too much, laugh at your flops, and come home a stone heavier but happier. Can’t wait to go back.