Port Isaac, and Cornwall hire car adventures. ...Actually, mainly hire car adventures.

Twelve minutes. I’ve been in Redruth for a total of twelve minutes and, due to the contrast of Cornwall’s blue skies and bright sunshine with the thick fog and chilling breezes of the Big Smoke, I’m about to collapse on the pavement in a sweaty heap. Nice.

I am climbing the hill in Redruth’s East End towards M Y Motors. More pressingly, I am climbing the hill towards my first ever hire car experience in all my 21 years. I nervously hand over a really quite reasonable £35 for 29 hours worth of roadster rental. Ordinarily, I drive a neat little V-reg Astra, which has been with me since I passed my driving test. The grand Ford Mondeo I am presented with feels like a dinosaur in comparison: my incredibly short legs can hardly reach the clutch, I cannot see over the steering wheel so I begin driving in some short of mad hunched-forward-and-perched-on-the-edge-of-the-seat position, the acceleration (which, I have heard, is a fairly vital ingredient to successful car driving) is a little unresponsive until the pedal is entirely compressed, at which point the bloody thing shoots forward like a rocket, and to top it all off the cigarette lighter wont power my sat-nav. It’s own battery is of course almost dead, and I drive along very aware that it’s about to abandon me and my poor sense of direction. Oh, and I must NOT forget that this car takes diesel, not petrol. DIESEL. NOT. PETROL.

I brake, splutter and stall down the gorgeously picturesque Cornish roads, and about three minutes from my guest house the talking robot who knows where I need to go dies completely. It’s an emotional moment. She was my friend. It’s when I’m continuing down a road after a wrong turn that I start to miss her less, as I find my destination in the opposite direction to that of which she’d tried to take me. I have a feeling that my lack of satellite navigation is possibly a blessing in disguise, and conclude that a good old fashioned map is the way forward from now on. Not that I have a choice now anyway.

I let myself into my little budget room to freshen up after my long journey to Pasty Land, and cannot help but giggle to myself. For reasons unknown, the landlady has informed me, by way of laminated post-it’s attached to the inside of the door, what the breakfast choices are on two separate bits of paper (one large, one small, but stuck up just centimeters from one another), as well as the fact that I am supposed to “sleep in the WHITE sheets and lay your head on the WHITE pillow cases.” Thank you. I hadn’t been quite sure. My favourite post-it had not warranted lamination despite being pride of place in the en-suite. It was bright orange and advised that “this is a slow draining wet room. Please shower gently.” I am glad that the luxury Boutique Retreats gaffs, in all their glorious popularity, were fully booked up this week. My place is accidental comedy value at it’s finest.

After fifteen minutes playing with the driver seat functions until I can see the actual road, I head for Port Isaac - notably more comfortable and getting on far better with my automobile. I’m fine until Wadebridge, at which point things that appear on signposts abruptly disappear into thin air, and several times I inadvertently find myself in the arse-end of nowhere which more often than not consists of an endless country lane the width of a peanut. Note to motorists who are not used to this: Beware of tractors.

The Doc Martin theme tune loops in my head as I approach Port Isaac. So excited am I to finally arrive at this gorgeously quaint little village, known by lovers of the ITV series as the fictional harbour town of Port Wenn, that as I drive past Miss Glasson’s primary school (which in real life is a suave bar/restaurant) and spot the Doc’s surgery snuggled into the cliffside ahead (in real life, it’s just...well...someone’s cottage), I am about to make a fatal error. Do not, under any circumstances, drive through the actual town of Port Isaac. Narrow does not even cover it. On the upside, I got to practice every maneuver that my driving instructor taught me for the first time since my driving license turned pink.

I’ll put my hands up and say right now that my drive (ha ha) for coming here in the first place was fueled (and again...) purely by my love for all four series’ of Martin Clunes and his Cornish ventures as the town’s GP, and fellow enthusiasts will lap it up. It is a shame that the town’s fame has created an enormous surge in restaurant prices, as was the very first thing I checked out because on arrival I was starving. The Mote pub overlooking the harbour (aka the fictional Crab and Lobster) had amazing views and indeed dished up a heavenly portion of cod, chips, peas and tartare sauce - albeit for the area’s average price of £14. I feel it’s just slightly steep, which is the least I can say about the hilly terrain of the rest of the rest of the town as I wondered around matching buildings to Doc Martin episodes. This evening, Port Isaac seems a peaceful and happy haven populated by friendly locals (having lived in London all my life, it’s a pleasant surprise when a stranger greets you in the street). A full-blown nightlife review, however, can be saved for a day when I don’t have to drive myself home.