I finally made it to Porthleven after a bit of a faff on the drive down from Redruth – nothing major, just me taking a wrong turn onto a tiny lane that dead-ended at a field full of very unimpressed cows. Laughing at my sat-nav skills (or lack thereof), I backtracked, and there she was: St Mawes, this cosy little whitewashed cottage tucked right in the heart of the village, overlooking the harbour. From the moment I parked up and hauled my bags through the low doorway – minding my head on the classic Cornish lintel – I knew this three-day jaunt was going to be all about proper relaxation, fuelled by the best of local grub.

First impressions? Blimey, the place smelled like a hug from Granny – fresh linen, a hint of sea salt, and that welcoming whiff of a just-baked pasty someone must've left as a treat. The kitchen was a dream for a food-obsessed nomad like me: compact but kitted out with everything you'd need, from a sturdy Aga-style cooker to a fridge stocked with local milk and eggs. I dumped my stuff and headed straight out to suss the lay of the land, stomach rumbling. Porthleven's food scene hits you like a rogue wave – unpretentious, hearty, and everywhere you turn.

Wandering down to the harbour, I clocked the fishing boats bobbing about, and the air thick with that briny promise of fresh seafood. My first stop was the Porthleven Beach Bistro, just a stone's throw from St Mawes. Sat outside with a pint of Skinner's Betty Stogs – crisp, Cornish, and just the ticket after my cow detour – I tucked into a crab sandwich that was pure heaven. The meat was sweet and flaky, slathered in mayo on doorstep bread, with a side of chips fried in dripping. £12 well spent, and the view of the breakers crashing on the beach made it feel like I'd won the lottery. Chatting with the barman, he reckoned the morning catch dictates the menu, so I made a mental note to return.

Back at the cottage by early afternoon, I fancied a crack at cooking. The local market stall on the harbour – run by a cheery couple who'd clearly been at it for years – had hooked me earlier with its bounty. I grabbed some mackerel straight off the boats, still glistening, a bunch of samphire foraged from the marshes nearby, and new potatoes the size of golf balls. Feeling like Jamie Oliver (minus the telly ego), I fired up the hob at St Mawes. Disaster struck mildly: I overdid the mackerel, turning it into a slightly charred tribute to my enthusiasm. But slathered in butter from the fridge and that peppery samphire, it was still a belter. Paired with a cheeky glass of Cornish cider I'd nipped in for, eaten at the tiny kitchen table with harbour views, it felt like Michelin-star dining on a budget. Self-reflection moment: why don't I cook like this at home? Too knackered from the daily grind, I suppose. Here, with no distractions, it was blissfully simple.

Evening called for the pub crawl – Porthleven's got a cracking trio within spitting distance. The Ship Inn first, where I demolished a ploughman's with mature Cheddar from Helston market (just up the road) and pickled onions that packed a punch. The cheese was crumbly perfection, and the pint of Sharp's Doom Bar washed it down like a dream. Nipped next door to the Old Inn for a bowl of mussels in cider – plump, steamed with chunks of smoked bacon, and sopped up with crusty bread. The landlady recommended the local brewer's hazy IPA, which cut through the richness brilliantly. By now, I was chatting with fishermen about the day's haul, all of us huddled by the fire as dusk fell over the harbour lights twinkling outside St Mawes.

That first day wrapped with me waddling back to the cottage, full as a goog, collapsing on the squishy sofa with a cuppa and a flapjack from the market. The gentle lap of waves and murmur of pub chatter drifting in – it was the perfect intro to Porthleven life. Already plotting tomorrow's feast, I drifted off thinking: this is what holidays are for, innit?