I’ll never forget the drive down to Cornwall – we piled into the car in Bristol, full of beans after a fry-up, only for me to take a wrong turn just past Bodmin and end up on some winding B-road that seemed to go on forever. The sat-nav lost signal, the kids were moaning about needing the loo, and I was sweating like a porker in a bacon factory. But hey, that’s half the fun of a British road trip, right? By the time we rolled into Mitchell, that sweet little village tucked away in the Cornish countryside, the sun was peeking through, and my heart lifted. Spotting the pub just 150 metres up the lane didn’t hurt either – a promise of a proper pint later.

Pulling up to this cracking five-star holiday home, I was buzzing with anticipation. It’s got this huge, enclosed garden that’s an absolute dream, and the location deep in the countryside felt like we’d stumbled into a secret hideaway. First impressions? Spot on. Spacious, comfy, and screaming family getaway vibes – perfect for our lot, including the dog who immediately claimed a sunny corner as his throne.

We’d planned the week around hikes, you see. Cornwall’s got those cracking coastal paths and country trails that make you feel alive, and with Newquay just 6.5 miles away, we figured we’d mix it up. Day one was pure gold: blue skies, not a cloud in sight. We parked near the beach at Newquay – Fistral, that legendary surf spot – and hit the South West Coast Path. The kids and pup dashed across the sand, whooping as waves crashed, while I stuffed my face with the crispiest fish and chips from a beach shack. The hike along the cliffs was brisk but brilliant, with gulls wheeling overhead and the sea sparkling like a million quid’s worth of diamonds. Legs burning, lungs full of salty air – proper job done.

But oh, the British weather, eh? It’s got a wicked sense of humour. Next morning, we woke to biblical rain lashing the windows. No chance of the coast today. So we pivoted to local walks straight from the door – Mitchell’s countryside paths are a gem, winding through fields and hedgerows, with cows eyeing us suspiciously. Muddy as you like, my wellies caked, and I slipped arse-over-tit into a puddle, which had everyone in stitches. Gentle self-reflection moment: maybe I’m not the rugged hiker I fancy myself. Still, we plodded on, spotting buzzards and wildflowers peeking through the gloom. The enclosed garden saved the day too – after a soggy ramble, we dried off with tea and biscuits, the dog snoring by the Aga.

By midweek, the weather played nice again. We tackled a loop from the village pub back through lanes to Newquay’s quieter edges – sandy toes, pasty in hand, watching surfers carve the waves. Even on a drizzly afternoon hike near Crantock Beach (just a hop away), the mist added magic, turning the dunes ethereal. One rainy tramp had us sheltering in the pub, supping ales and plotting tomorrow’s route.

Those walks, rain or shine, made the holiday. They forced us to slow down, laugh at the squelching boots, and appreciate the wild beauty on our doorstep. Mitchell and its surrounds? Pure Cornwall magic. We’re already plotting a return – wellies packed this time.