I finally made it to 2 Tree Tops near Looe after a bit of a faff on the drive down from Devon. Picture this: I'm bombing along the A38, past Plymouth, singing along to some dodgy 90s playlist, when I realise I've left my phone charger at the services. Proper numpty moment—had to pull into a layby and rig up some gaffer tape nonsense from the boot to keep my satnav alive. Still, the sun was out, the Cornish air was already sneaking through the window, and by early afternoon, I was trundling down those narrow lanes towards Polmanter, the cottage peeking out like a cheeky treehouse wedged between the branches.

Pulling up to 2 Tree Tops, my first thought was, "Blimey, this is proper lush." Elevated on stilts with wraparound decks overlooking the wooded valley, it felt like stepping into a secret hideaway. The owners had left a welcome pack on the kitchen table—fresh milk, bread, a pint of clotted cream, and a cheeky note saying "Tuck in!" I dumped my bags and cracked open a local Doom Bar from the fridge they'd stocked. First impressions? Cosy as a pasty fresh from the oven, with massive windows framing the treetops and that faint sea tang drifting up from Looe a couple of miles away. I was starving after the drive, so I raided Looe Harbour a quick five-minute spin down the hill for the essentials: plump Cornish kippers, a slab of Stilton from the deli, and some proper pasties from the bakery—steak and 'tato, naturally, oozing gravy like they should.

That first evening, I fancied cooking something dead simple in the cottage's cracking kitchen—big range cooker, all mod cons. I'd spotted a farm shop just up the road in Morval, so I nipped there for new potatoes, wild garlic butter, and a punnet of Looe's strawberries that smelled like summer in a bowl. Back at the treehouse, I bunged the kippers under the grill, boiled up the spuds, and attempted a fancy sauce with cream and a splash of gin from my stash. Disaster struck when I got distracted by the view—smoke alarm went off like a foghorn, filling the place with fishy fog. Laughing at myself, I scraped it together onto a plate, ate it on the deck with the sun dipping behind the oaks, and it was still banging. Paired with a cold bottle of Rattler cyder, it felt like proper Cornwall therapy. Sitting there, fork in hand, I had a quiet moment reflecting on how I'd been grafting non-stop back home— this was the reset I needed, just me, good grub, and no emails pinging.

Next morning, breakfast was a highlight. I'd grabbed cream teas from the Co-op in Looe the night before—scones still warm, jam thick as treacle. Slathered them on the deck with a brew, watching squirrels nick about in the trees below. Hunger hit again mid-morning, so I wandered down to the Jolly Sailor pub right by Looe Harbour—classic old boozer with beams low enough to duck. Settled in with a pint of Tribute ale and their massive fisherman's platter: crab claws, prawns, smoked mackerel, all fresh from the boats bobbing outside. Chatted with a couple of locals about the best spots for crab lines (turns out the beach at Hannafore, a stone's throw away, is prime). Washed it down with a sticky toffee pud that stuck to my ribs in the best way.

By lunch, I was back at the cottage market-hopping mindset strong. Popped into Millendreath's little beach shop for crab sandwiches on granary—succulent, mayo-drenched perfection eaten on the deck swing. Afternoon? A daft attempt at pasty-making with leftover dough from the farm shop. Kneaded it like a pro (or so I thought), stuffed it with local cheddar, leeks, and swede, but it came out lopsided and leaky. Still devoured it with a side of pickled onions, chuckling at my culinary ambitions. Looe Harbour's fish market had tempted me with fresh pollock, so dinner was that pan-fried with samphire foraged vibes and a herby couscous—nailed it this time, no alarms.

Those first 24 hours at 2 Tree Tops revolved around the feast: markets heaving with Looe's bounty, pubs dishing soul-warming plates, and my own bungled kitchen triumphs. It's the kind of stay that reminds you life's too short for rubbish food—Cornwall does it best, treehouse perch and all.