It’s been a busy week, and a full one to boot. March in Cornwall is always a blast, thanks to the celebrations of our adopted saint Piran.

Full disclosure: I am not Cornish. I prefer to be upfront about this, rather than be found out and vilified for cultural appropriation. Daughter is fond of decrying me as a “fake Cornishwoman” with my tartan shirt and handbag (the one that has binmen leaning out of their cabs to shout “Like your bag, maid!”), and St Piran earrings made from a Ted Baker tin by Scattybun.

In fact, I am from Lincolnshire, a perfectly good county in its own way. “Do you have a patron saint?” asked photographer Paul on March 5, with a mischievous glint in his eye. I was reminded fleetingly of Trump and Vance berating Zelensky over his suit, although Paul’s tongue was firmly lodged in his cheek, his mockery taken in good spirit.

In truth, I don’t know if my home county has a guiding angel. Google suggests St Hugh of Lincoln, or the intriguing Gilbert of Sempringham; and to be fair, St Piran has a couple of competitors in St Petroc and St Michael.

We might not have had a national day in Lincs, but we had a song to sing – I assumed everyone knew The Lincolnshire Poacher, but I could be wrong – and instead of the Cornish Knockers, we had the Lincoln Imp.

But proud as I am of my birthplace, for reasons I struggle to name – it certainly isn’t cricket, even less cauliflowers - none of this holds a candle to the pomp that comes with St Piran’s big day. What a big-hearted display of warmth and unity, from Bude to Penzance.

The fun began on March 1 for me, compering the World’s Fastest Crimper contest at the Great Cornish Food Store in Truro. Such is the legend of the Cornish pasty, the competition drew entries from as far afield as Tokyo, while others came from a lot closer and learned the art at their granny’s knee.

One young man admitted watching a YouTube video the night before. I’m in no position to criticise – I can eat pasties competitively, but have never made one (my own gran specialised in puddings, of the rice and Yorkshire variety).

Richard from Somerset had his first taste of crimping aged 17, working for Proper Cornish in his native Bodmin. His trainer was our judge, Julie, who can crimp in six seconds flat. Sadly, this was all some time ago, and learning from the best in the business did not help Richard progress to the final.

The trophy was won by 77-year-old grandmother Sue Mountford, from Penpol, who knocked the competition into a cocked hat despite arthritic hands – and even a dislocated finger. “It’s actually quite good therapy,” she said, no doubt planning to continue at home.

By Wednesday, I was well in the mood for some Cornish cheer. Lemon Quay was a sea of Cornish tartan and St Piran flags, the black and white representing the act of tin smelting. Children were dancing and queuing for selfies with Mr and Mrs Pasty.

There were some full-throated cries of “oggy oggy oggy”, which I now know comes from the Cornish word for pasty, hogen (the “oi oi oi” response was, in effect, the miners saying “save me one, I’m coming!”).

The City of Truro steamroller was on show, a stone’s throw from the streets it flattened decades ago. Town crier Lionel Knight told me how he rode on it at the age of six, long before Health and Safety took a dim view of such things. My photographer friend persuaded Lionel to let me hold his bell, an object so sacred I’m not sure I’d have dared ask of my own accord. It’s bleddy heavy, let me tell you.

In the evening, we headed down to our local for some lusty singing with Truro Male Choir at the Trelawny Shout. We belted out Hawker’s composition, and plenty of other bangers to boot: Lil Lize, Camborne Hill, Lamorna, Cornwall My Home.

Daughter’s eyes were closed, her hand on her heart. “How wonderful to see her joining in,” said a singer. In fact, Daughter and OH have traced his mother’s line back to the mid 1700s, with ancestors in Newlyn East, Gorran Haven and Ladock. That’s proper Cornish indeed, and I share their pride vicariously.

I took some heart from the words of Grand Bard Jenefer Lowe on the steps of Truro Cathedral. “It doesn’t matter whether you are Cornish born or Cornish by choice. We can all celebrate what Cornwall is: its culture, its language and its way of life. That’s more important today than ever, and we must keep it safe for generations to come.”

I’m on board with that - and so is Daughter. Kernow bys vyken!