I finally made it to Porthleven after a bit of a faff on the drive down from up country – nothing major, just a rogue seagull splattering my windscreen right as I turned off the A30, forcing a hasty stop at the first services for a squirt of screenwash and a muttered curse. Laughing it off, I was soon trundling into the village, the sea air hitting me like a salty slap, and there it was: Nori's Nest, this cracking little shepherd's hut tucked away in a peaceful spot just a short hop from the action. From the moment I pulled up, keys in hand, I knew this three-day jaunt was going to revolve around one thing – eating my way through Porthleven's food scene, with the hut as my cosy base for bungled cooking experiments and pub crawls.

First impressions? Blimey, the hut's a proper gem. Compact but brilliant, with a teeny kitchen that screamed "challenge accepted" for my amateur chef vibes. I dumped my bags, cracked open a cold one from the mini-fridge (stocked with local brews, thank goodness), and surveyed the scene: a wood-fired hot tub out back (future me's delight), and views peeking towards the coast. But hunger hit fast – it was gone 1pm, and Porthleven's rep for top-notch seafood had me salivating. No faffing about; I wandered straight to the beachfront, where the fishing boats bobble about, and hit up the harbourside fishmongers. Fresh mackerel straight off the line, glistening and cheap as chips – a couple of quid for enough to feed a small army. Snagged some plump prawns too, and a bag of samphire foraged from the marshes nearby. Back at the Nest, cooking attempt number one: pan-fried mackerel with a squeeze of lemon and that salty samphire. Sounded dead posh in my head, but let's be honest, I nearly set off the smoke alarm singeing the skins. Still, wolfed it down on the hut's little deck, the sun dipping low, with a cheeky pasty from the village bakery as backup. Greasy, flaky perfection – proper Cornish fuel.

Evening called for pubs, and Porthleven delivers. Strolled to the Ship Inn, right by the harbour wall, where the beer's always spot on and the chatter's lively with locals nursing pints after a surf sesh. I plonked down for their fish and chips – massive cod fillet, golden batter that crunched like it should, mushy peas on the side. Washed it down with a pint of Skinner's ale, sharp and sessionable. Chatted with the barman about the day's catch; turns out that mackerel I'd fried was probably from the same boat. Light bulb moment: this place is all about that hyper-local vibe. Back at the Nest, stuffed and merry, I fiddled with the wood burner to heat the place up, reflecting gently on how daft it is that I never make time for this simpler stuff at home – faffing with takeaways instead of fresh grub like this.

Day two kicked off with the farmers' market down by the pier – a riot of stalls heaving with pasties, saffron buns, and artisanal cheeses. Bargained for some smoked trout and a loaf of proper sourdough (heavy as a brick, but worth it). Lunch experiment at the hut: trout pâté whizzed up with cream cheese from the Co-op, smeared on that bread with pickled onions. Messy triumph – or so I told myself, licking the blender clean. Pub lunch followed at the Coastguard, overlooking the breakers: crab claws in garlic butter, so fresh they practically swam off the plate. Evening? Back to the Ship for a seafood platter – mussels, scallops, the works – and a few jars of Porthleven Brewing Co.'s finest IPA. Bloke next to me reckoned the hut's hot tub was the business after a bellyful; noted for later.

By day three's brekkie – bacon sarnies from local pork butchers, fried in the hut's tiny pan without disaster – I'd nailed the rhythm: market forage, hut fiddle, pub polish. Nori's Nest wasn't just a crash pad; it was the heartbeat of my food-focused escape, turning Porthleven's bounty into memories. Bloody brilliant first impressions – I'll be back for more mishaps and mackerel.