I’ll never forget the drive down to St Ives – a proper British road trip, innit? We piled into the car in the pouring rain somewhere near Exeter, sat-nav confidently directing us along those twisty coastal roads. About halfway, disaster struck: a massive pothole sent us veering into a layby with a flat tyre. Me, fiddling with the jack like I knew what I was doing, while my other half rang the breakdown service. Half an hour later, we were back on track, laughing about how our holiday was already living up to Cornwall’s unpredictable rep. By the time we crested the hill into St Ives, the clouds had parted just enough to tease us with glimpses of the sea, and my heart lifted. What a spot – we’d booked this spacious two-bedroom maisonette perched up high, with jaw-dropping views right over the bay. Perfect base for us two, cosy yet roomy enough if we’d had the kids along.

First impressions? Magic. We dumped the bags, cracked open a cuppa on the balcony, and just gawped at the waves crashing below. The anticipation built as we planned our week: endless walks along cliff paths, beach rambles, the works. Cornwall’s got that pull, doesn’t it? But oh, the weather – classic. Day one dawned bright, so we set off along the South West Coast Path towards Porthminster Beach. Sunshine bouncing off the water, gulls wheeling overhead, and not a soul in sight on those rugged trails. We huffed up the inclines, stopping for pasties from a beach kiosk – proper job, flaky pastry and all. Felt like we’d stepped into a postcard.

Come afternoon, though, the mist rolled in thick as clotted cream. Plans for a long hike to Carbis Bay? Scrubbed. Instead, we ducked into town, wandering the cobbled streets of St Ives, dodging the sudden drizzle under shared umbrellas. It forced us onto shorter loops – up to the headland for sneaky sea views, then back via the harbour where fishing boats bobbed like they were in a dance. Hilarious moment: I slipped on some wet granite steps (wearing my daft flip-flops, mind), ended up arse-over-tit in a puddle. We howled with laughter, me soaked to the skin, her snapping a photo for posterity. “Holiday souvenir,” she called it.

Next day, gales whipped up, turning our ambitious trek to Zennor into a battle against the elements. We battled on for a bit – wind howling, cheeks ruddy – but sensibly pivoted to a sheltered valley walk behind town, wildflowers nodding in the gusts. The weather kept us on our toes, mixing epic sunny strides with cosy café stops at places like Porthgwidden Beach for a warming scone. It was brilliant, really – those changeable skies made every outing an adventure, never knowing if we’d get biblical rain or golden hour.

Looking back, that flat tyre was a blessing in disguise. It slowed us down, made us appreciate the rhythm of St Ives’ paths and the bay’s moods. We returned knackered but buzzing, plotting our next rainy-day ramble. Cornwall, you cheeky beauty – we’ll be back for more.