I finally made it to Fowey after a bit of a faff on the drive down from Devon – nothing major, just a rogue seagull dive-bombing my windscreen near St Austell, leaving a smeary gift I had to wipe off at the next layby. Laughing it off with the missus, we trundled into Cornwall proper, the salty sea air hitting us as we wound down towards this cracking little spot on the outskirts of Fowey. Exclusive 2 Bed (Pet) was our home for three days, a cosy pet-friendly cottage that promised peace and a cracking base for scoffing our way through local grub. Our labrador, Monty, was buzzing in the back, tail thumping like a drum.

Pulling up just after lunch on day one, the first impression was pure Cornish charm – whitewashed walls nestled against a gentle hillside, with sea glimpses peeking through the trees, not five minutes from Fowey's bustling harbour. We unloaded the car amid Monty's excited sniffs, dumping bags in the light, airy lounge that opened straight onto a private patio. The kitchen was a proper gem: well-stocked with pots, pans, and a cooker that looked like it meant business. No faffing about with subpar gear here; it screamed "get cooking, you lot." First order of business? Raid the nearby Fowey market for supplies. A quick five-minute stroll down to the harbour's edge, and we were in amongst the stalls – fresh mackerel gleaming on ice, pasties the size of hubcaps from the local baker, and clotted cream so thick you could stand a spoon in it.

We grabbed a couple of those legendary Cornish pasties – steak and veg for me, cheese and onion for her – still warm from the oven, flaky pastry crumbling everywhere. Sat on a bench by the water, munching away with gulls eyeing us jealously, it was the perfect arrival feast. Monty got a sneaky bit of crust, naturally. Back at the cottage, first impressions ramped up as we unpacked our market haul: plump tomatoes from a polytunnel grower, crusty bread, and a slab of proper Stilton from the deli stall. I fancied myself a chef, cracking open a tin of sardines we'd snaffled too – tinned in olive oil, straight from the pilchard heritage of these parts. Whipped up a simple plate: sardines on toast with a dollop of that clotted cream (don't knock it till you've tried), washed down with a cold tinnie from the fridge.

Evening rolled in, and the cottage felt even more inviting – sunset painting the patio gold as we fired up the little BBQ out back. More market finds: local sausages from the butcher's counter, fat and herby, sizzling alongside skewered peppers and onions. Monty lounged nearby, hoping for scraps. It wasn't MasterChef, mind – my attempt at flipping them resulted in one slightly charred number, which I blamed on the sea breeze. "Gourmet blackened sausage," I quipped, and we chuckled over it with a bottle of Cornish cider, crisp and fizzy from a nearby producer. The smells wafting through the open windows made the place feel like ours already.

Next morning, day two dawned bright, and breakfast was non-negotiable cottage fare. No hotel buffet nonsense; we scrambled eggs from the market (hens' eggs, free-range and golden-yolked) with bacon rashers smoked on-site, fried up in the cast-iron pan. Toast slathered in butter and that leftover cream – proper fuel for a mooch to The Lugger, a cracking pub just a stone's throw up the hill. First pint of the trip: a pint of Skinner's Betty Stogs, malty and spot-on, with a ploughman's lunch that hit the spot – hunks of Cheddar, pickled onions, and doorstop bread. Sat outside under brollies, watching fishing boats bob in the estuary, it was all about that unhurried Cornish rhythm. Monty sprawled at our feet, charming punters for crisps.

By lunch, back at the cottage, I had a go at a pasty-inspired pie with our veg and leftover sausage – pastry from the market, rolled out wonkily on the kitchen table. It emerged a bit lopsided, more rustic blob than perfection, but steaming hot with a side of chutney, it tasted of victory. We ate on the patio, plates balanced on knees, reflecting gently on how these simple meals grounded us. Away from the daily grind, faffing in a strange kitchen with local loot felt oddly therapeutic – a reminder that the best holidays aren't about fancy nosh, but savouring the moment, one messy bite at a time. Those first impressions? They'll linger longer than the sunburn.