I finally made it to Porthleven after a faffing drive down from Redruth, my little hatchback groaning under the weight of too many pasties I'd picked up en route. The satnav had a right paddy just outside the village, directing me down a narrow lane that dead-ended at a cowpat-strewn field – classic Cornwall, innit? I reversed out laughing at myself, splattered in mud, and eventually rolled up to the 1 Bed Lodge In Redruth around teatime on a drizzly Friday. It's this cosy little spot tucked away in Porthleven, proper West Cornwall vibes with its whitewashed walls and thatched roof peeking over a hedge. One glance and I thought, "This'll do nicely for a solo unwind."

No sooner had I hauled my bag through the door – which creaks like it's auditioning for a horror flick – than I met my first character: old Reg from next door. He's the sort of bloke who looks like he's been carved from driftwood, with a beard that could hide a pasty or two. Leaning on his garden fence, pipe in mouth, he clocked me unloading and hollered, "New 'ere, are ya? Don't mind the seagulls, they think they're the landlords!" I chuckled, wiping mud off my boots, and he launched into a yarn about the time a gull nicked his wife's false teeth from the washing line. "Flew off with 'em like a trophy!" Turns out Reg fishes out of Porthleven Harbour most days, mending nets and moaning about Brexit quotas. We chatted for half an hour about the best chippy – his vote goes to the one by the beach – and he insisted I try his homemade scrumpy later. Proper welcoming, that was; made the lodge feel like home already.

Inside, the place is a hug in cottage form: low beams you have to duck (I'm only 5'10", but still bashed my noggin twice), a squishy sofa facing a wood burner, and a kitchenette stocked with tea that's not Tetley's – result. First impressions? Blissfully quiet, save for the distant crash of waves on Porthleven's beach. I cracked open a window, and in wafted the salty tang of the sea, mixed with that earthy Cornish air. But the real magic kicked off when I wandered down to the harbour for a mooch, still buzzing from Reg's tales.

There I bumped into Tina, the no-nonsense landlady type running the beachside café. She's got hair like a bird's nest after a storm and a laugh that echoes off the harbour walls. "You staying at that lodge up the lane?" she asked, plonking a cream tea in front of me unasked. I nodded, and she was off: "Heard you met Reg – don't let him sell you any of his 'special' cider, it'll have you seeing mermaids!" Tina's a Porthleven lifer, born in the shadow of that massive breakwater they built after the big storm in '14. She regaled me with stories of locals surfing the swells – "My nephew wiped out last week, ended up in St Ives, the daft sod!" – and how the village pub, the Ship, once had a ghost that pinched pints. Her chatter was gold; I sat there, scone crumbling, feeling like I'd gatecrashed a family do.

By evening, as the sun dipped behind the cliffs, I nipped to the local shop for milk and met Barry, the chap behind the counter with tattoos from elbow to knuckle and a voice like gravel. "First time in Porthleven?" he grinned, scanning my pasty. Aye, I said, and he lit up: "You're in for it, mate. Last week, old Mrs. Penberthy swore she saw a selkie down by the rocks – half-seal, half-woman, pinching her knickers off the line!" We bantered about village myths, him swearing blind that the harbour's haunted by smugglers. Barry even slipped me a free pasty "for the road," which I demolished back at the lodge.

Sitting there that first night, mug of tea in hand, staring out at the twinkling harbour lights, I had a quiet moment of reflection. Life back home's a whirlwind of deadlines and drama, but here, chatting with these quirky souls – Reg's yarns, Tina's cackle, Barry's myths – it hit me how a simple hello can recharge the batteries. Porthleven's characters wrapped me in their warmth from the off, making that 1 Bed Lodge feel like the heart of it all. Can't wait for day two.