I finally made it to Porthleven after a bit of a faff on the drive down from Redruth – nothing major, just a rogue seagull splattering my windscreen with what looked like a full English breakfast mid-roundabout. A quick splash at a services and I was back on track, buzzing to check into Droskyn, this cosy little cottage I'd booked for a three-day escape. Pulling up outside, I was chuffed to bits; it's one of those classic stone jobbies tucked into the village, just a stone's throw from the harbour, with that proper Cornish charm – whitewashed walls, a cheeky flower basket dangling by the door, and the salty sea air hitting you like a welcome hug.

First impressions? Blimey, it felt like home straight away. I dumped my bags in the compact kitchen – all kitted out with a proper Aga-style cooker, granite worktops, and enough gadgets to make a telly chef jealous. No faffing about with check-in; the key was under the mat, and inside it was spotless, with a vase of fresh daisies on the table and a "help yourself" jar of local clotted cream. But let's be honest, the real star was the food potential. I'd planned to live like a local, foraging markets and pubs rather than posh restaurants, and Droskyn was perfect for it – that kitchen screaming for some home-cooked fiddles.

Stomach rumbling from the drive, I legged it down to the harbour, where the fishing boats were bobbing and the air thick with chippy smells. Porthleven's got this brilliant little daily market vibe right by the water – stalls heaving with fresh mackerel straight off the boats, plump Cornish pasties still warm from the oven, and wheels of proper cheddar from nearby farms. I grabbed a couple of those silver-bright sardines, some new potatoes, and a bunch of rocket that tasted like it was picked that morning. Back at the cottage, my first "cooking attempt" was a right laugh – trying to grill the sardines on the hob without setting off the smoke alarm. They came out a tad charred (lesson one: open the window next time), but slathered in butter and a squeeze of lemon from the market, washed down with a cold tin from the fridge, it was pure bliss on the tiny patio overlooking the rooftops. Sat there as the sun dipped, feeling a proper twit for ever eating supermarket rubbish.

Evening called for the pub crawl – Porthleven's got a cracking scene, all within wobbling distance. First stop, the Ship Inn, right on the harbour wall. Packed with locals nursing pints of Skinner's ale, it was proper lively. I went for the seafood platter – mussels in garlic, scampi fries, and a hunk of battered cod that was fluffier than my nan's Yorkshire puds. Humour in the chaos: I nearly lost a chip to a cheeky Jack Russell under the table, who eyed me like I'd nicked his dinner. Washed it down with a cheeky pint of Betty Stogs – smooth, malty, and just the ticket. Back at Droskyn, stuffed and merry, I pottered in the kitchen again, brewing a pot of tea with some biscuits I'd snaffled from the village bakery earlier. The cottage's snug lounge, with its inglenook fireplace (unlit, mind, it being summer), was perfect for collapsing into.

Next morning – still day one, technically, as I'd arrived late – I hit the Porthleven market proper. It's a weekend gem, but even midweek there's enough to fill your bags: artisan bread from the Helford Bakery stall, smoked kippers, and jars of piccalilli that could wake the dead. Armed with supplies, I had a bash at a full Cornish brekkie in Droskyn's kitchen – bacon rashers sizzling, eggs poached wonky, and grilled tomatoes bursting with flavour. Ate it at the window seat, watching fishing boats chug out, and had one of those gentle moments: life's too short for rushed meals in beige offices; this – fresh grub, sea views, a bit of solitude – is what recharges the batteries.

Lunch was a stumble to the Cobalt Sky, another harbour gem, where I demolished a crab sandwich on granary, claws picked fresh that morning. Tea? Back home for a pasty bake-off: one shop-bought from Arthur's, one my half-arsed attempt with market steak and spuds. Mine won on effort, theirs on taste – hilarious post-mortem with a cider. First 24 hours at Droskyn, and it's all been about the eats: simple, local, belly-filling stuff that makes you forget the world. Can't wait for day two's feasting.