We’d only just rolled into St Ives when the satnav decided we were already at Starboard, which turned out to be our neighbour’s garage two streets away. After a sheepish three-point turn and a neighbourly wave, we finally crunched up the short drive and stepped into the little cottage with sand already on our shoes.

The first thing we did was drop our bags and wander straight into town for something to eat. Carbis Bay beach was only a short stroll downhill, so we followed the smell of frying chips and ended up at a harbourside pub where the haddock was still crackling from the fryer. We sat outside with pints of Tribute, watching the last of the day-trippers drift past, and agreed that the journey was already forgiven.

Next morning the little kitchen at Starboard proved more ambitious than our usual holiday selves. We’d picked up a crusty loaf and some local sausages at the Thursday market on Fore Street, and I volunteered to do a proper fry-up. Everything was going well until the sausages decided the grill pan was too small; one rolled clean off the edge and landed butter-side-down on the slate floor. We rescued it with a quick rinse and a blast under the grill, and it tasted none the worse for the adventure—though we kept that detail between ourselves.

By midday we were peckish again, so we ambled back to the harbour and joined the queue at one of the little seafood stalls for crab sandwiches packed so full the bread could barely close. We ate them on the wall, legs dangling over the water, while seagulls performed low-level reconnaissance. Later, we popped into The Badger for a late lunch of scampi and chips, and the landlord’s golden retriever spent the entire meal resting his chin hopefully on my knee.

That evening we tried cooking again—this time a simple pasta with mussels bought that afternoon from the fishmonger just off Smeaton’s Pier. The cottage’s little oven behaved perfectly, and we ate at the scrubbed pine table with the windows open to the sound of waves on Porthminster Beach below. Between mouthfuls we reflected that perhaps the best part of any holiday is not the grand plans, but the small rituals: market queues, pub stools, and the occasional sausage on the floor that still ends up tasting rather good.