I’ll never forget the drive down to Polruan – that classic Cornish trek where the satnav decides to have a midlife crisis just as you hit the narrow lanes. We’d loaded up the car with pasties from a services stop (a proper road trip essential), but then the thing rerouted us down what felt like a goat track, complete with overhanging brambles scratching the paintwork. I was convinced we’d end up in someone’s veg patch, but somehow we popped out right by the quay, hearts racing and grinning like idiots. First glimpse of the cottage? Absolute dream – this superior little gem, immaculately turned out, just yards from the beach and quay, with Fowey’s river sparkling across the water like a postcard. Peaceful as anything, yet dead handy for the local inns and shops. We couldn’t wait to dump the bags and explore.

Polruan’s one of those spots that lures you in with its quiet charm, but the real magic happened when we ditched the map and let ourselves get properly lost. No grand plans, just wandering off down unmarked paths hugging the cliffs, the kind you stumble on by accident. Our first hidden gem was this tiny cove we found after taking a wrong turn behind the quay – barely a soul there, just seals basking on the rocks and waves whispering against the pebbles. We picnicked on crab sandwiches from the village store, feeling like we’d gatecrashed paradise. Laughing about it later, I realised how often I barrel through holidays ticking boxes; this was me finally switching off.

Next day, we hopped the passenger ferry over to Fowey – five minutes of pure joy bobbing across the estuary – but instead of the main drag, we veered off into back lanes that led us to Bodinnick. Stumbled on Daphne du Maurier’s old home by sheer fluke, peering through the hedges at that literary vibe. Turned it into a circular walk, getting gloriously muddled in the woods, emerging with flushed cheeks and a tale about nearly adopting a wayward collie. Back in Polruan, we unearthed another secret: a secluded beach path that locals must whisper about, fringed with wildflowers and ending at a smuggling cave rumoured to be from pirate days. Sat there with a thermos of tea, watching fishing boats bob, and I had one of those gentle moments – you know, reflecting on how life’s best bits aren’t the Instagram hotspots, but these accidental detours that make you feel alive.

Ventured a bit further on foot to those sleepy hamlets dotting the south coast, like the tucked-away paths to Cawsand and Kingsand on the Rame peninsula. Got lost again in the hedges, emerging at a hidden harbour where kids were crabbing off the quay. No crowds, just salty air and that timeless Cornish hum. Even Charlestown’s Georgian harbour sneaked into our wanderings – we bumbled into it mid-ramble, its Poldark fame a bonus we hadn’t planned. The cottage was the perfect base, cosy and quiet, letting us recharge after each meander.

Honestly, that week of serendipitous discoveries beat any itinerary. If you’re after Cornwall’s soul, skip the guides, embrace the wrong turns, and let Polruan work its off-the-beaten-track wonders. We’re already plotting a return.