I’d barely turned off the A30 when the sat-nav decided we were already at the cottage, which was awkward seeing as we were still on the wrong side of Penzance. By the time we found the right lane the rain had started, and reversing into the tiny parking spot involved more shouting than reversing. The key was supposedly under a flowerpot, but the only pot on the step was full of cigarette butts and a very damp spider. We were still laughing about it when the neighbour popped his head over the fence.

“Lost the instructions, have you?” he called, in the sort of accent that made every word sound like it had been soaked in salt air. His name was Trevor, and he offered to show us the trick with the back door before we’d even got the cases out of the boot. Five minutes later we were inside, shoes off, kettle on, and Trevor was still chatting through the open window about the best pasty shop “just up the hill, mind, not the one with the big sign.” His wife, Maureen, appeared with a Tupperware of scones and the warning that the tide times were printed on the back of the bathroom door “in case you forget your phone like most of ’em do.”

We hadn’t planned on meeting anyone that first afternoon, but the beach path runs right past their garden and Trevor was out there again when we wandered down for a look at the water. He pointed out the exact spot where the local kids still jump off the old stone slipway at high tide, and told us the story of the time the lifeboat crew had to rescue a tourist’s drone instead of a person. Maureen joined us with two mugs of tea she’d carried in bare hands, insisting the milk was “only from up the road, none of that long-life nonsense.” By the time the sun dipped we knew which bench not to sit on because the seagulls had claimed it, and which bench was safe if you wanted to watch the fishing boats come in without getting dive-bombed.

Later, back at the cottage, we sat on the little bench outside with the scones and watched the sky turn that particular Cornish grey that somehow still feels cheerful. Trevor wandered past once more on his evening walk and gave us a thumbs-up through the hedge, as if checking we’d settled in. It struck me, watching him disappear round the corner, how quickly a place stops feeling like a holiday let and starts feeling like somewhere you’ve been invited. We hadn’t even unpacked properly yet, but already the mishaps of the journey felt like they belonged to this stretch of coast rather than to us.