I finally made it to Mordros in St Ives after a bit of a faff on the drive down from Devon. The satnav decided to play silly buggers just past Launceston, sending me on a detour through some narrow lanes that had hedges scraping the sides of my hire car like it was auditioning for a horror film. Nothing major, just a few new scratches to explain to the rental bloke, but it had me muttering under my breath and questioning why I hadn't just taken the train. Still, by late afternoon, I was trundling into St Ives, the sea air hitting me like a salty slap, and pulling up outside this cracking little cottage tucked away in a quiet spot near the harbour.

Mordros is one of those proper Cornish gems – a cosy two-bedroom job with a walled garden that screams "relax here with a pasty in hand." First impressions? Bloody brilliant. The owners had left a welcome pack on the kitchen table: fresh milk, bread, a pint of clotted cream, and a note saying to help ourselves to eggs from their hens. I cracked open a cold beer from the fridge (they'd stocked a few local IPAs too) and surveyed my kingdom. The kitchen was kitted out nicely – Aga-style cooker, herb pots on the windowsill overlooking the garden, and all the pots and pans you'd need for a proper bash at some home cooking. My plan for the three days? Dive headfirst into Cornwall's food scene, from markets to pubs to faffing about in that kitchen. No grand hikes or beach marathons for me this trip; it was all about eating like a local.

Day one kicked off with a wander down to St Ives' harbour, where the fishy aroma had my stomach rumbling before I'd even clocked the stalls. The Tuesday market was in full swing – think rickety tables groaning under piles of fresh mackerel, crab claws still twitching, and wheels of Cornish Yarg cheese that smelled like heaven wrapped in nettles. I grabbed a bag of mussels (bargain at a fiver), some plump tomatoes from a veggie van, and a couple of saffron buns from a bakery that looked like it'd been there since smuggling was legal. Back at Mordros, I rolled up my sleeves for my first cooking attempt. Sauteed the mussels in garlic butter with a splash of white wine I'd picked up from the offie, chucked in the tomatoes and a handful of parsley from the garden. It was a right mess – half the shells pinged off the hob like popcorn, and I nearly set the smoke alarm off – but blimey, they tasted of the sea. Paired with crusty bread slathered in that clotted cream (weird combo? Nah, it worked), it was a proper feast sat in the garden as the sun dipped low.

Evening called for a pub crawl within spitting distance. First stop, The Sloop Inn, right by the beach – packed with locals nursing pints of Skinner's Betty Stogs. I went for the seafood platter: scampi, prawns, and whitebait that were so fresh they could've swum off the plate. Washed down with a cheeky GandT made with local gin that packed a botanical punch. Feeling bold, I staggered to The Quay for a nightcap – their fish pie was legendary, all creamy mash and flaky cod, though I only managed half before admitting defeat. Back at Mordros, sprawled on the sofa with a cuppa, I had one of those gentle moments: staring at the fairy lights in the garden, realising how knackered city life had left me. This cottage, this food-focused bubble, was just what I needed – simple grub, cracking views, no rush.

Day two ramped up the market love. Popped to the daily food stalls near Porthmeor Beach for more treasures: a slab of St Ives pasty (proper beef skirt, mind, none of that veggie nonsense), jars of local pilchards in tomato sauce, and strawberries so sweet they burst like summer fireworks. Lunch was a disaster in the best way – tried making a pasty from scratch in Mordros' oven. Dough everywhere, filling spilling out like lava, and it came out looking more like a rugby ball than a semicircle. Tasted ace, though, especially with a dollop of mustard relish. Pub-wise, The Lifeboat was next: their crab sandwiches on granary are stupidly good, and the cider there goes down smoother than a smuggling yarn.

By day three's brekkie – frying up those welcome eggs with bacon from a nearby butcher – Mordros felt like home. One last pub lunch at The Castle Inn for a ploughman's with vintage cheddar that could've stood a spoon in, and I was done. What a way to eat Cornwall: messy, merry, and utterly memorable. If you're after a foodie hideaway, this is it.