I’ll never forget the drive down to Par – that classic Cornish road trip where you’re buzzing with anticipation, windows down, pasty in hand, dreaming of pasties number two and three. Me and the missus had the kids in the back, ages seven and nine, hyped up on Werther’s Originals and promises of beach castles. We’d left Bristol at dawn, figuring we’d beat the traffic, but oh no – about 20 miles from the Cornish border, we hit a proper caravan crawl. Proper standstill, engines idling, and little Ollie decides that’s the perfect moment to spill his juice all over the iPad. Cue muffled chaos, soggy screens, and me trying not to laugh while swearing under my breath at the sat nav. But hey, it’s holiday mode, right? Mishaps make the memories.

By early afternoon, we rolled into Par, hearts lifting at the first glimpse of the sea winking between the houses. Tucked away in the heart of this unpretentious little spot, just a stone’s throw from the beach, we pulled up to our first-floor apartment in an elegant old house – one of those luxurious one-bedroom hideaways, all individually designed with real flair. Private parking right outside? Bliss. Stepping in, we were hit with this light-filled open-plan space that just screamed relaxed couples’ retreat, but we made it our family bolthole anyway. Simple, inviting, with everything thoughtfully laid out – we dumped the bags and cracked open the windows to that salty sea air. First impressions? Spot on. It felt like pressing pause on real life already.

Par’s got that perfect Cornish village charm – no frills, just proper seaside ease. We wandered down to Par Beach that first afternoon, buckets in tow, the kids charging into the waves while we parents flopped on the sand, sipping thermos tea. It’s a wide, sandy stretch, ideal for little ones paddling in the rock pools or building epic moats. Evening rolled around, and we ambled to the Harbour Tavern for fish and chips – crispy, golden, wrapped in paper, eaten on a bench overlooking the harbour. The kids demolished theirs, vinegar dripping, while we watched fishing boats bob. Cottage life chaos at its finest: sandy feet tracking in, wet towels everywhere, but who cares when it smells like freedom?

Next day, we kept it local – a gentle stroll along the coast path to Polkerris Beach, maybe a mile away, dodging gulls and breathing in that briny tang. The kids hunted for crabs in the tidal pools, coming back with tales of monster finds (mostly seaweed). Back at the apartment, we lounged in the open space, brewing endless cups of tea, playing Uno till bedtime. Simple pleasures, innit? No grand plans, just kicking back with sea views and each other’s company.

Reflecting on it now, sat here back home with the school run looming, I realise it was the chaos that made it magic. Us lot, crammed into that opulent nook, spilling juice and sand, rediscovering what matters – pausing properly. Cornwall does that to you. We’re already plotting a return, minus the caravan crawl if poss.