I’M back from Cornwall, refreshed, relaxed and a little suntanned.

We spent a fair amount of time on the beach, the children having a great time on their body boards.

All that was lacking was a Brian Wilson tune in the background.

We earned some eco-brownie points at the Eden Project and absorbed the atmosphere of Jamaica Inn.

Inevitably, we had to visit a village close by with the preposterous but wonderful name of Minions.

The parish council there, I’m glad to report, have a sense of humour and have installed a village sign complete with images of the ubiquitous yellow creatures from the Despicable Me movies.

We were thrilled and chilled at Bodmin Jail. Particularly fascinating were the details about the Pierrepoint family, the father and son who plied their trade as executioners. Apparently Albert, the junior Pierrepoint, could eye a condemned prisoner and assess instantly exactly how long the noose needed to be to painlessly and swiftly despatch them to eternity. Eight feet of rope was generally required for a tall and hefty prisoner, apparently. I think they made a film about Albert, England’s last hangman, a few years back with Timothy Spall in the lead role.

You would think, wouldn’t you, that going to the other end of the country would sky-rocket the odds on bumping into somebody you know. Not us.

We met neighbours of ours on a tourist-congested street in Looe. A coincidence but as I always say, who knows who else we missed by a whisker while traipsing the streets of Cornwall.

Whenever armed with an ice cream or a Cornish pasty, people warned us to beware of the seagulls. We thanked them for their concern, but we were already on the case, having seen the tabloids’ horror headlines and David Cameron’s public service announcement the week before.

I have to say, Cornwall’s seagulls are especially ugly and aggressive, like something out of a Tim Burton movie.

But we managed to hang on to our ice creams and Cornish pasties.

Which leads me on to something you might be able to help me with.

Can you call a pasty Cornish if it’s not from Cornwall? In the way that champagne not bottled in that particular region of France is merely sparkling wine?

Knowing how proud and protective the Cornish are of anything relating to their beloved county, I wouldn’t be surprised if this was the case.

On the way home we spent half a day in Bath, which is most definitely not Cornwall. Yet I saw three shops proclaiming to sell authentic Cornish pasties. Perhaps they are made in the county then transported elsewhere.

I would have brought you one back, but sadly I ate it.