I finally made it to Fowey after a bit of a faff on the drive down from Devon – nothing major, just a rogue seagull splattering my windscreen with what looked like half a pasty right at the Polruan turn-off. Laughing it off with a quick squirt from the washer, I carried on, windows down, breathing in that salty Cornish air that hits you like a promise of pasties and pints. Pulling up to the Exclusive 2 Bed Hot Tub (Pet) cottage just outside Fowey, I was knackered but buzzing. This place looked proper lush from the pics, but seeing it in person? Spot on – a cosy stone-fronted beauty tucked into the hillside, with the hot tub peeking out like it was winking at me.

First impressions were all about that homey vibe as I let the dog, Monty, off the lead for a scamper. The owners had left a welcome pack on the kitchen table: fresh scones, clotted cream, strawberry jam, and a bottle of local Rattler cider. "Result!" I thought, cracking it open while unpacking. The kitchen was a dream for a self-catering numpty like me – gleaming Aga, stocked with pots and pans, and a fridge begging to be filled with Cornwall's finest. No faffing about; I nipped straight to the Fowey market, just a five-minute drive, where stalls were heaving with crab fresh off the boats, plump mussels, and wheels of Cornish Yarg cheese that smelled like heaven wrapped in nettle leaves.

Back at the cottage, my first "cooking attempt" was ambitious: a seafood feast. I'd grabbed king prawns, samphire from the marshy edges nearby, and some lemon sole fillets. Channelled my inner Rick Stein (more like Rick the Amateur), sloshing white wine into a pan for a sauce while the Aga warmed up. Monty watched from his bed, tail thumping, as I nearly set off the smoke alarm juggling the sizzling garlic butter. Tasted cracking though – sat out on the patio as the sun dipped over the estuary, dipping bread into the garlicky juices, with the hot tub bubbling invitingly. Proper indulgent, that first evening meal, washed down with another Rattler. Laughed at myself, fork in hand, thinking how back home I'd be nuking a ready meal, but here? I felt like a proper chef.

Next morning, breakfast was all about the full Cornish. Scored some proper bacon and eggs from a farm stall en route – none of your watery supermarket stuff. Fried it up with black pudding from the market, chucking in mushrooms foraged in spirit if not fact. The cottage's big wooden table overlooked the garden, and with Monty hoovering up scraps, it was pure bliss. Self-reflection hit me then, mid-bite: life's too short for rushed brekkies. Here, with the sea breeze wafting in, I realised I'd been grafting too hard lately – this was my reset button, one rasher at a time.

Pub lunch called next, naturally. Strolled to the Ship Inn, a Fowey gem not five minutes away, for a pint of Doom Bar and their legendary crab sandwiches. Fresh claw meat piled high on granary, with chips that crunch like they've been kissed by Poseidon. Chatted with locals about the best spots for mackerel, feeling like I'd slotted right in. Back for "dinner prep" – attempted a pasty from scratch using the market's beef skirt and swede. Pastry was a bit of a doughy disaster (note to self: less water next time), but slathered in Heinz and scoffed hot from the oven with mushy peas? Perfection. Hot tub soak after, cider fizzing beside me, Monty snoring nearby.

That first full day wrapped with fish and chips from a takeaway shack by the harbour – cod so flaky it dissolved, battered in beer flour, eaten on the cottage terrace as gulls wheeled overhead. No grand adventures needed; just good grub, cracking views, and that rare feeling of being utterly content. If arrival sets the tone, this holiday was already shaping up to be a belter. Can't wait to see what the next meals bring.