I finally rolled into Porthleven after a bit of a faff on the A30 – nothing major, just a rogue seagull smacking into my windscreen near Helston, leaving a streak of feathers and guano that had me swearing like a proper Cornishman while I scraped it off with a Costa cup. Three days at Mordros, this cracking little fisherman's cottage tucked away in the village, and I was buzzing to settle in and get stuck into some proper eating. From the off, it felt like the perfect spot for a food-focused getaway, with the sea air whetting my appetite before I'd even unpacked.

First impressions? Mordros hits you with that cosy, lived-in charm – slate floors, a wood-burner begging for a fire, and a kitchen that's small but kitted out like a dream for faffing about with local grub. I dumped my bags and headed straight for the nearby Porthleven market, just a five-minute wander down the hill. It's one of those proper Cornish markets, heaving with stalls of fresh seafood, artisan cheeses, and veg that looks like it's been plucked from the earth that morning. I nabbed a couple of mackerel straight off the boat, some fat tomatoes, and a hunk of Stinking Bishop that could wake the dead. Bargain at a fiver a bag, and the stallholder chucked in a lemon for free – classic.

Back at the cottage, my first cooking attempt was ambitious: grilled mackerel with a herb crust. I'd spotted some wild garlic growing wild nearby (well, in the cottage garden patch), so I bashed that up with oil and breadcrumbs pinched from the welcome pack. Disaster struck when the smoke alarm went mental – turns out the grill's a sneaky bugger in these old places. Laughing at my singed eyebrows in the mirror, I salvaged it with a splash of cider vinegar from the pantry. Washed down with a tinny of Doom Bar from the fridge (Mordros thoughtfully stocks the basics), it was fresh, flaky perfection. Sat on the tiny patio overlooking the rooftops towards the harbour, I thought, blimey, this is living.

Evening called for the pub crawl – Porthleven's got a trio of absolute belters within spitting distance. Started at The Ship, right by the inner harbour, where the barman poured me a pint of Skinner's Betty Stogs that went down like liquid gold. Their fish and chips? Monumental – haddock the size of my forearm, batter crisp as a fresh pasty, with mushy peas that tasted homemade. I overheard locals nattering about the day's catch, and it felt proper authentic. Fuelled up, I waddled to The Harbour Inn next door for a nightcap. Their seafood platters are legendary, but I opted for a lighter crab salad starter – sweet, meaty claws mixed with mayo and a kick of chilli. Pub grub doesn't get better; it's all hyper-local, hauled in that morning.

Day two kicked off with a fry-up attempt in Mordros' kitchen. Sausages from the market (proper butcher's, herby and fatty), eggs from a nearby farm stall, and grilled field mushrooms. Burnt the toast, mind – these Agas take some getting used to, and I ended up with a slice like a hockey puck. Chuckled to myself over coffee, reflecting on how I'm always the one who dreams big with meals but cocks it up on the basics. It's that gentle nudge, innit? Reminds you holidays are for loosening up, not perfection. Mid-morning, I hit the beachside path to grab pasties from Philps – steaming hot, lamb and mint filling oozing out, eaten on a bench watching the surfers. Lunch was a picnic of rye bread, local smoked mackerel pâté, and pickled samphire from the market, sprawled on Mordros' sun-trap terrace.

By supper, I'd graduated to a proper cottage feast: Cullen skink cobbled together from smoked haddock bought fresh, cream, potatoes, and leeks. Simmered it low on the hob while sipping a local Rattler cider. Ate it by the fire with crusty bread from the village bakery – creamy, smoky heaven. Popped over to The Old Inn for pudding: their sticky toffee with clotted cream is sinful, paired with a Proper Job ale. Three days in, and every moment revolved around the rhythm of eating – markets fuelling my dodgy culinary experiments, pubs providing the pro-level nosh. Mordros wasn't just a stay; it was a taste of Porthleven's soul, one delicious mishap at a time. Can't wait to go back.