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 sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us on a scenic detour through some narrow lanes that had me gripping the wheel like my life depended on it. A classic Cornish welcome, complete with a scraped wing mirror on a rogue hedge. Still, by the time we trundled up to our reverse-level townhouse on the sea terrace, hearts were racing with that proper holiday buzz. Off-road parking was a godsend, and as we stepped out, those sea views hit us like a wave – Cornwall at its finest, all shimmering and endless.

First impressions? Spot on. It’s got two bedrooms right on the entrance level, each with its own telly for lazy lie-ins. We nabbed the king-size with the en-suite walk-in shower – pure bliss after a day pounding the beaches. The twin next door zipped up into a super-king on request, perfect for our mates tagging along. And that bright family bathroom with the bath and shower over? Heaven for rinsing off the sand and salt.

But let’s be honest, the real star of the show was the food – or should I say, our valiant attempts at holiday feasting. We rocked up with grand plans to cook like pros in the well-kitted kitchen, starting with a massive seafood linguine using fresh crab from St Ives’ harbour. Picture this: me, apron on, clumsily cracking claws while the other half chops garlic like a telly chef. It turned out half-decent, slurped down on the terrace with those views, a chilled white from the local offy, and the sun dipping low. Not bad for amateurs, though I did nearly set off the smoke alarm flambéing the garlic butter.

Next morning, we hit the farmers’ market down by the lifeboat station – absolute treasure trove. Bags bulging with artisan bread, plump tomatoes, and the creamiest Cornish clotted cream you’ve ever seen. We grabbed pasties from Philps for lunch – proper ones, flaky pastry stuffed with beef and spud, eaten on the harbour wall watching the fishing boats bob. Washed it down with a pint of ale at The Sloop, that cracking pub tucked away with its cosy corners and sea-gazing windows. Their fish and chips? Legendary – golden batter, chips that didn’t need vinegar to shine, and mushy peas on the side. We lingered there most afternoons, nattering about nothing, people-watching the surfers and families.

Evenings were a mix of pub crawls and kitchen disasters. One night, we tried posh fish pie with market-bought smoked haddock and prawns – sounded gourmet, ended up a bit lumpy, but slathered in cheese and baked bubbly, it hit the spot. Laughed our heads off over it, wine flowing. Another evening, we splashed out at Porthmeor Beach Café nearby – crab salads and local oysters that tasted like the sea itself, fresh as can be. And don’t get me started on the ice cream from the hub down by the beach; salted caramel had me weak at the knees.

Looking back, it was those simple meals that made it – the anticipation of what we’d scoff next, the joy of faffing in the kitchen with mates, even when it went pear-shaped. Made me reflect on how we rush through life back home, never savouring a proper plate like that. St Ives fed our souls as much as our bellies. Can’t wait to go back for seconds.