I finally rolled into Porthleven after a faffing drive down from the motorway, my little hatchback groaning under the weight of cool bags stuffed with provisions. The mishap? I'd forgotten to pack the flipping corkscrew, so my first stop was the village's tiny Co-op, where I rummaged through the aisles like a man possessed, emerging triumphant with a £2 bargain that looked like it'd seen better days. Tresco, this cosy stone cottage tucked just off the harbour road, welcomed me with a squeaky gate and a waft of sea salt. It was love at first sight – whitewashed walls, a pint-sized garden with pots of herbs begging to be pinched, and a kitchen that screamed "get cooking, you lazy sod."

First impressions? Proper idyllic. The harbour was buzzing below, fishing boats bobbing like they'd just clocked off from a hard day's graft. I dumped my bags and legged it straight to the beachfront for a nose around. Porthleven's food scene hit me like a rogue wave – proper fresh, unpretentious stuff. I grabbed a pasty from the Harbour Gallery Bakery, still warm from the oven, flaky pastry crumbling everywhere as I perched on a bench overlooking the breakers. Cornwall does pasties right, none of your tourist tat; this one was loaded with proper chunks of beef and spud, washed down with a flask of tea I'd brewed en route. Sat there, crumbs on my lap, feeling like I'd cracked the code to holiday bliss.

Back at Tresco, I unpacked my loot: local cider from the farmers' market I'd scoped on the way in (five minutes up the road, stalls groaning under strawberries and clotted cream), a slab of St Ives cheese, and some mackerel I'd haggled for off a bloke at the harbour. The cottage kitchen was a dream – Aga humming away, copper pans dangling like jewellery. My first cooking attempt? Disaster with a grin. I tried pan-frying the mackerel with a splash of that herb garden's rosemary, but the fish stuck like glue, filling the air with a smoky aroma that had me wafting tea towels out the window. "Chef Ramsay would have my guts," I chuckled to myself, scraping the salvageable bits onto a plate with buttered new potatoes from the Co-op. Paired with a crisp pint of Skinner's ale from the fridge, it was rough around the edges but tasted of the sea. Ate it on the tiny patio as the sun dipped, gulls squawking overhead – pure magic.

Evening called for the pub crawl, Porthleven-style. The Ship Inn, right by the water, was first up – heaving with locals nursing pints of Betty Stogs and plates of battered haddock that looked like they'd been caught that morning. I went for the seafood platter: prawns, mussels, and squid rings, all glistening with garlic butter. Chatty barman recommended the local gin, and before I knew it, I was swapping stories with a couple of fishermen about the morning's catch. Next door, the Atlantic was calling – proper lively, with live folk music filtering out. Snagged a table for their moules frites, the mussels plump and briny in a white wine sauce that had me licking the bowl. "One more pint," I lied to myself, settling on a half of sharp Porthleven cider.

Day two dawned with a bacon sarnie cooked on Tresco's hob – streaky rashers from the market, fried till crisp, slathered in HP sauce. Ventured to the Cove Restaurant for lunch, where the crab sandwiches are legendary; fresh-picked that day, mayo just right, served with chips that crunched like autumn leaves. Afternoon? Another market mooch for bread and olives, then a heroic fail at making clotted cream scones in the cottage. Flour everywhere, scones like hockey pucks, but slathered in jam, they went down a treat with tea overlooking the harbour.

By day three, nursing a gentle hangover from the night's jaunt to the Blenheim, where the Sunday roast (Cornish beef, Yorkshire puds the size of hubcaps) nearly did me in, I sat reflecting in Tresco's sun-trap lounge. This place, with its food-focused heartbeat, had me pondering how daft I'd been not holidaying local sooner. Porthleven fed my soul – and my stomach – proper.