We’d been on the road for what felt like half a lifetime by the time we finally turned off the A30 and bumped down the narrow lane towards Carn House. The sat-nav had given up the ghost somewhere near Camborne, so we were relying on a crumpled print-out and a lot of guesswork. Just as we thought we’d cracked it, the lane narrowed to a single track and we met a tractor coming the other way. In a panic I yanked the wheel too sharply and managed to wedge our front wheel in the hedge, which of course set the kids into fits of laughter while my partner calmly suggested we “just reverse a touch.” Five minutes and a few muttered words later we were free, covered in bits of bracken, and rolling into the little gravel parking spot beside the cottage.

Carn House sits just a short stroll from the beach path, and even from the car it looked exactly like the sort of place you half-remember from childhood postcards: pale stone walls, slate roof, and a slightly lopsided chimney that gives it character. The owners had left the key in the old milk churn by the door, which felt wonderfully old-fashioned until I dropped it twice trying to work the stiff lock. Inside, the air was cool and faintly salty, and the low ceilings made me instinctively duck even though I’m not especially tall. We dumped our bags in the hallway and wandered straight through to the kitchen, where a big pine table already had a vase of fresh wildflowers waiting. The kettle was one of those retro whistling jobs, and the satisfying shriek it made while boiling somehow made the whole journey feel worth it.

From the sitting-room window you can just glimpse the sea between the dunes, a silvery strip that kept catching the light as clouds scudded past. We didn’t even unpack properly before heading out for a quick look, shoes crunching on the sandy track that leads down to the cove. The tide was out, leaving rock pools glinting in the late afternoon sun, and the kids immediately started poking about with sticks while we stood there breathing in the clean, sharp air. Back at the cottage the garden was tiny but perfectly formed, with a little bench tucked against the wall where you could sit and listen to the gulls. I found myself wondering why it always takes a wonky hedge and a temperamental lock to remind me how good it feels to simply stop moving for a while.