I finally made it to Newquay after a bit of a faff on the A30 – nothing major, just a rogue seagull dive-bombing my windscreen near Bodmin, leaving me spluttering and wiping guano off the glass with a McDonald's napkin. Typical Cornwall chaos, innit? But as I trundled into the quiet lane just outside Newquay, the satnav chimed that I'd arrived at the Exclusive Hot Tub 3 Bedroom Lodge. Sleeps six, they said, but it was just me and my mate Dave for this three-day jaunt, so plenty of space to sprawl.

Pulling up, first impressions? Blimey, it was a proper treat. Tucked into a peaceful spot with that lush Cornish greenery all around, the lodge looked bang on – wooden cladding gleaming in the late afternoon sun, and there it was, the hot tub bubbling away on the private deck like it was waiting for a VIP. I dumped my bags, cracked open a tin of Cornish pasty from the boot (emergency rations from the services), and just soaked it in. The air smelled of sea salt and damp earth, proper invigorating after the drive.

Right, priorities: food. No faffing about with fancy bookings on arrival day; we legged it to the nearest farm shop, just a couple of miles down the road towards Porth. Grabbed a haul of local goodies – clotted cream straight from the tub, still warmish from the churn; a slab of crumbly Newquay pasty (proper one, beef skirt and spud, none of your veggie nonsense); and some fresh mackerel that the bloke behind the counter swore was line-caught that morning off Fistral Beach. Back at the lodge, we fired up the kitchen – dead posh, it was, with that big range cooker and all the mod cons. My attempt at pan-fried mackerel? Let's just say it was more charcoal than crispy skin. Dave took the piss mercilessly: "Mate, you've turned it into a bonfire starter!" We salvaged it with a dollop of clotted cream (don't knock it till you've tried), scoffed it with buttered bread from the bakery bag, and washed it down with a cheeky local ale from the fridge – Skinner's Betty Stogs, if memory serves. Proper comforting, even if my cooking was a shambles.

Evening rolled in, and that hot tub was calling. Slipped in with a pasty in one hand and a pint in the other – heaven. Chatting rubbish about nothing, bubbles fizzing around us, we plotted tomorrow's eats. First impressions of the lodge? Spot on for lazy self-catering. No aggro with restaurants; everything you need to cobble together a feast.

Next morning – still day one vibes, really, as we lounged about – we wandered to Newquay's harbour market, a five-minute drive. Bustling with stalls flogging fresh crab, samphire foraged from the rocks, and those massive Cornish pasties you could use as a doorstop. Picked up some saffron buns from a baker who looked like he'd been kneading dough since the Blitz, and a punnet of strawberries so red they practically glowed. Back at base, Dave manned the BBQ (he's the grill master, unlike my frying pan fiasco), slathering sausages from the farm shop in local mustard. I handled the salads – easy peasy, just rocket from the market, feta, and those strawberries sliced up for a twist. Sat out on the deck, plates piled high, overlooking the hedges towards the sea. The lodge's outdoor space made it feel like our own private gastro-pub.

Pub o'clock hit around six. Strolled to a cracking little local just up the road – The Lucky Dip, or summat like that, proper Newquay boozer with beams and a roaring fire. First pints of Tribute ale slid down a treat, followed by platters of battered haddock and chips, mushy peas on the side. Fish was flaky perfection, sourced from the boats we'd seen bobbing that morning. Chatted to some locals about the best spots for crab sandwiches (spoiler: everywhere's good). Back at the lodge by nine, hot tub redux with leftover saffron buns for dunking. Laughing at my mackerel murder, I had a proper moment of reflection: life's too short for rubbish cooking, but mates, a stocked kitchen, and this cracking setup? That's the ticket. Cornwall does comfort food like nowhere else, and this lodge nailed the home-from-home vibe from the off. Can't wait to return – next time, I'll stick to pasties.