I’ll never forget the drive down to Cornwall that Friday afternoon – sat nav insisting we take the scenic route via some winding B-road that turned out to be narrower than my patience. Halfway there, we had a proper comedy moment: a cheeky tractor decided to play chicken with our hire car, forcing me to reverse into a hedge while swearing under my breath at the sheep looking on like they owned the place. Still, by the time we crested the hill above Carbis Bay, the anticipation was buzzing. There it was, the sea sparkling like it was showing off just for us, and St Ives peeking round the corner like an old mate waving hello.

Pulling up to the property, I was chuffed to bits. Set in the exclusive Compass Point development with its own fabulous shared sea-facing terrace, this wonderful home rests right above the bay. Spacious and superbly finished, it offered an elegant base from which to enjoy one of Cornwall’s best sandy beaches, as well as the delights of nearby St Ives. First impressions? Spot on. The place felt like a hug from a posh nan – all light and airy, with views that made you gasp and forget the tractor trauma instantly.

But honestly, the joy of the whole trip was doing sod all. After years of frantic holidays cramming in every sight, this was my reset button. We’d flop onto the sun loungers on that shared terrace first thing, mugs of tea in hand, watching the waves roll in over Porthkidney Sands below. No rush, no plans – just the gentle whoosh of the tide and the odd seagull squawking for attention. I’d crack open a dog-eared paperback, the one about Cornish smugglers I’d been meaning to read for ages, and lose hours while the sun climbed higher.

Lazy cottage days became the rhythm. Mornings in the garden, picking at a bowl of local strawberries from the nearby farm shop, feet up on a rickety chair that creaked like it was telling stories. Lunch was a faff-free affair: pasties from the St Ives bakery (grabbed on a five-minute amble), eaten picnic-style overlooking the bay, crumbs flying as the wind picked up. Afternoons blurred into dozing, maybe a slow wander down to the beach for a paddle – water cold enough to wake the dead, but bracing in the best way. Evenings? Curled up inside with a GandT, the windows flung wide to let in the salty air, chatting nonsense as the sun dipped behind the headland.

There was this one moment of gentle self-reflection, staring out at the lighthouse on Godrevy, when it hit me: I’m always chasing the next thing, aren’t I? Work, lists, hustle. Here, time stretched like toffee. No emails pinging, no deadlines. Just being. We did venture into St Ives once for chips on the harbour, but mostly it was this – slowing down, breathing deep, letting Cornwall work its magic. Left feeling lighter than when we arrived, tractor hedge and all. Proper tonic.