I’ll never forget the drive down to St Ives – or rather, the near-disaster that kicked it off. We’d piled into the car in Bristol, full of excitement for a week away, only for me to realise halfway through Devon that I’d forgotten the cool bag with all our posh picnic supplies. Cue a frantic U-turn at the next services, where I grabbed some dodgy pasties that turned out to be more pastry than filling. Still, by the time we wound our way into Carbis Bay, the sun was dipping over the bay, and my heart lifted. Spotting our holiday spot – this cracking duplex penthouse up high with those uninterrupted sea views from pretty much everywhere, including the conservatory and private terrace – I was buzzing. The St Ives scenic railway chugged by just below, the beach was a skip away, and the South West Coast Path beckoned. First impressions? Pure magic. We cracked open a bottle of local white on the terrace that evening, toasting the panoramic sparkle across the water.

Food was the absolute star of the stay, though. Being self-catering in a spot like this meant we could play Top Chef in our shiny kitchen, but let’s just say my attempts were more comedy than cordon bleu. Day one, I fancied impressing with a seafood linguine using fresh crab from St Ives’ harbour market. Popped down there early, haggling with the fishermen over the morning’s catch – Cornish sardines, plump mackerel, and pots of that sweet white crab meat. Bargain heaven, all for a few quid. Back home, I boiled the pasta too long (mush alert), overseasoned the garlic, and somehow turned the lot into a sloppy mess. We laughed it off with chips from the beach kiosk, wolfing them down while watching the waves.

Pub grub saved the day, time and again. The Towan Valley Beach Cafe, just a stroll from the apartment, became our go-to for breakfast baps loaded with bacon and black pudding, washed down with strong builder’s tea. Evenings, we’d amble to the Carbis Bay Hotel’s bar for their fish and chips – proper haddock in crispy batter, mushy peas on the side, and a pint of Tribute ale that hit the spot after a coastal wander. One night, we pushed the boat out at The Hub in St Ives, sharing platters of local oysters and prawns, all shucked fresh that day. The seafood here is unreal; you taste the sea in every bite.

Markets were my weakness. St Ives’ Friday market had me stocking up on pasties from Philps – steak and stilton for him, cheese and onion for me – plus jars of clotted cream and scones for lazy terrace afternoons. I even tried my hand at a cream tea picnic on Porthminster Beach, slathering it thick while the tide lapped close. Self-reflection moment: amid all this eating, I realised I’d spent more time faffing in the kitchen than relaxing. Next time, less chef, more chef-dines-out.

We wrapped up with a final feast at home – takeaway curry from the local in town, devoured on the terrace as the sun set over the bay. St Ives fed us body and soul; I’m already plotting the return trip.