I’ll never forget the drive down to St Ives – that classic Cornish road trip where you’re buzzing with excitement, windows down, pasty in hand, only for the sat-nav to chuck us into a tiny lane that dead-ended at a farm gate. Typical me, I thought I’d be the intrepid explorer, but there we were, reversing like amateurs while a local farmer gave us a cheery wave. Still, it only added to the anticipation; by the time we trundled into the spot above Porthmeor, hearts were racing for that first glimpse of the sea.

Pulling up, we were gobsmacked. Beautifully furnished and tastefully styled, the cottage is not only gorgeous to look at, but being above Porthmeor as well as a mere 10 minutes’ walk from St Ives’ restaurants, shops, Tate Gallery and harbour means it offers guests a rather unique combination of away-from-it-all quiet and at-the-centre-of-it-all buzz. From the garden, you get this cracking view over the beach – surfers dotting the waves like seals, the whole bay stretching out under that big Cornish sky. First impressions? Pure magic. We dumped the bags and just stood there, grinning like idiots.

But honestly, the joy of the whole trip was doing sod all. After years of rushing about – work, kids’ football, the endless treadmill – this was my reset button. Lazy cottage days became the religion. Mornings started slow: potter out to the garden with a cuppa, feet up on a lounger, watching the tide roll in. I’d crack open a battered paperback – some daft crime thriller I’d been meaning to read for ages – and let hours slip by. The other half would nap under the parasol, and we’d only stir for a bacon sarnie or to flick on the kettle again. No schedules, no guilt.

One afternoon, I caught myself just staring at the gulls wheeling overhead, mesmerised by how they’d hover then dive. Gentle self-reflection hit: when did I last switch off like this? Life’s too frantic; we forget how good it feels to breathe deep, let the world turn without us. Lunch was a wander down to Porthmeor for fish and chips wrapped in paper, eaten on the sand, sand getting everywhere as per tradition. Back up top, more reading – I demolished two books, chuckling at the plot twists while the sun dipped low.

Evenings? Cosy as you like. We’d meander the 10-minute path into St Ives for a pint at the Sloop or a mooch around the harbour, watching boats bob, but never staying out late. Back at the cottage, it was wine, a simple supper, and collapsing into the comfiest bed, lulled by distant waves. Light humour in the mishaps, like when I tripped over a garden chair mid-reverie, but mostly, it was blissfully uneventful.

That’s the genius of a spot like this – close enough for a buzz if you fancy it, but perfect for slowing right down. We left feeling human again, recharged by the art of bugger all. Can’t wait to go back.