I’ll never forget the drive down to St Ives – or rather, the white-knuckle dash to Carbis Bay. We’d set off from Bristol full of beans, playlist blasting some indie folk tunes, but halfway through Cornwall the sat-nav decided to have a midlife crisis. It rerouted us down a narrow lane that was basically a goat track, complete with a flock of sheep blocking the way and me panicking about scraping the hire car. “This better be worth it,” I muttered to my partner, as we finally emerged, windswept and giggling, onto the cliff-top road with that first tantalising glimpse of the sea sparkling below.

Pulling up to our second-floor apartment right above one of Cornwall’s cracking bays, I felt that proper holiday buzz kick in. The place was a belter – luxury setup sleeping four, perfect for us two plus my mate and his missus. Panoramic views across St Ives Bay from pretty much everywhere, including the beachfront balcony where we cracked open a bottle of fizz before we’d even unpacked. The beach below was a blue flag stunner, sandy and inviting, but honestly, it was the thought of all the grub that had us salivating.

First morning, we wandered down to the beach for brekkie at one of the beachfront cafés – nothing fancy, just proper bacon sarnies on fluffy baps with mugs of builder’s tea, watching surfers carve up the waves. Fuelled up, we hit Porthminster Beach Café for lunch, right on the sand. Freshly landed mackerel with new potatoes and samphire – simple, seasonal, and spot on. I’m no foodie snob, but that first bite had me moaning like I’d discovered Narnia through a chippy.

Afternoons were for pottering around St Ives’ food markets. The little hub on the harbour was gold – stalls piled high with local crab, plump strawberries from nearby Polyrran Farm, and pasties that could make a grown man weep. We grabbed some for a picnic on the balcony, spotting seals bobbing about in the bay while we scoffed. Evenings? The Carbis Bay Hotel’s fine dining was a treat – pan-roasted cod with a herb crust, paired with crisp Cornish white wine. Proper posh without the pretension, and the views at sunset were chef’s kiss.

Of course, I had to try my hand at cooking one night. The kitchen was kitted out like a dream, so I fancied myself as a seafood maestro. Nipped to the fishmonger for prawns and scallops, chucked them in a pan with garlic and chilli from the market. Disaster – or comedy gold, depending how you look at it. The scallops stuck like glue, and the whole lot tasted like a bonfire. We ended up laughing our socks off, ordering fish and chips from the beach bar instead, eaten cross-legged on the balcony with sandy fingers. Lesson learned: leave the cheffing to the pros.

Pub-wise, we loved The Hub in Carbis Bay – craft beers from St Ives Brewery and hearty bowls of moules frites, all while chatting with locals about the best pasty spots. One night, we stumbled into The Sloop Inn back in town, its cosy corners perfect for a ploughman’s and a pint of ale, swapping stories till closing. It got me reflecting, mid-bite of cheddar and pickle, how these simple meals – shared with good company, sea air in your lungs – are what holidays are really about. No Instagram perfection needed. We left fatter, happier, and already plotting the next trip for more of that Cornish feast.