We set off from the car park at St Eval with far too many bags and a map that insisted the cottage was “just a short stroll.” Ten minutes later I was stood in someone’s front garden, convinced the satnav had a personal vendetta, while my partner pointed out we’d walked straight past the sign that read “3 Bed Cottage.” The dog, naturally, found the whole thing hilarious and refused to move until a biscuit was produced.

Once we’d located the right gate the place felt instantly welcoming. Low stone walls, a bit of bramble curling over the fence, and that unmistakable smell of salt and warm grass drifting up from the coast path. The owners had left the key in the usual spot and a note suggesting we “head straight out while the sun lasts,” which we took as both invitation and gentle warning.

We dropped the bags, grabbed walking boots that still had last week’s mud on them, and set off along the narrow lane that drops towards the sea. Within minutes the path opened onto cliffs where the grass was already bleaching in the June heat. We followed it west, the breeze keeping things comfortable even though the forecast had promised “oven-like conditions inland.” Every so often we paused to watch gulls hang almost motionless above the water, and I found myself wondering why we ever bother booking proper holidays when this much loveliness sits an hour from the front door.

By late afternoon the clouds had started to build—classic Cornish timing—so we turned back early, stopping at a bench that looked over a small sandy cove. We ate pasties that had gone slightly soft in the rucksack and watched a family below trying to erect a windbreak that refused to stay put. The sudden cool gust made us both reach for the light jackets we’d almost left behind, and I caught myself smiling at how quickly plans shift here. One minute you’re mapping out a six-mile loop; the next you’re grateful for a sheltered spot and the excuse to linger.

Back at the cottage the windows were thrown open, letting the evening air carry the sound of waves right into the living room. We kicked off boots that now matched the local colour palette and made tea strong enough to stand a spoon in. There was talk of tomorrow’s longer walk, but already the day’s shorter route felt like exactly what we’d needed. Sometimes the best adventures are the ones that start with getting lost in a front garden and end with sandy trainers drying on the step.