I’ll never forget the drive down to Newquay – what should’ve been a straightforward motorway slog from Bristol turned into a comedy of errors when we hit a massive tailback just past Exeter. Some daft lorry had jackknifed, and there we were, me, my mate Dave, his lot, and a car full of excitable kids, inching along for two extra hours. By the time we rolled into town, the sun was dipping low, and I was proper knackered, but honestly, that anticipation bubbling up made it all worthwhile. Spotting the sea glinting in the distance had us all grinning like idiots.

Pulling up to this elegant Edwardian coastal retreat in one of Newquay’s prime spots was a right treat. It’s a beautifully restored four-storey holiday home, dead posh but cosy, sleeping up to 18 of us across eight cracking bedrooms with those jaw-dropping ocean views straight over Towan Beach’s golden sands. First impressions? Bloody brilliant – we dumped the bags and cracked open a few tins on the terrace, watching surfers carve up the waves below. Perfectly placed for everything, just a short stroll to the shops, cafés, and that little cinema for rainy afternoons.

We’d planned our week around walking adventures, you see – Cornwall’s South West Coast Path is legendary around here, and with Fistral and Porth beaches on our doorstep, we were geared up for coastal hikes galore. Day one dawned crisp and sunny, so off we trotted to Fistral, that iconic surfing haven not five minutes away. The path winds right along the cliffs, gorse buzzing with bees, and the kids scampered ahead spotting seals bobbing offshore. We paused for pasties from a beach vendor – proper job, flaky and steaming – before pushing on to the headland for panoramic views that make you feel tiny in the best way.

But oh, the British weather – it’s got a wicked sense of humour. Next morning, the sky turned slate-grey, wind howling like a banshee, and our ambitious trek to Porth Beach (calm waters and rock pools when it’s behaving) became a squelchy slog through mizzle that soaked us to the bone. Plans shifted sharpish; instead of a full coastal loop, we hugged the lower paths closer to Towan, dodging puddles and laughing as Dave slipped arse-over-tit on a muddy patch. “Nature’s waterslide!” he quipped, mud caking his trousers. We ended up beachcombing, poking rock pools for crabs, and timing waves to skim stones – simple joys that beat any grand hike.

A couple of drier days let us redeem ourselves with a gentle ramble along the path towards Newquay Harbour, eyeing fishing boats and dreaming of trips we never took. Rain chased us back once more, turning it into a dash for cover in a harbourside café for cream teas and hot chocolate. Looking back, those weather whims were the real magic – forcing us to adapt, chat more, and appreciate the wild beauty when it peeked through. Sat on the terrace that last evening, rain pattering softly, I had a quiet moment thinking how these shared mishaps knit us tighter than any perfect plan ever could. Cornwall’s paths, come rain or shine, they get under your skin. Can’t wait to go back.