We set off from the A39 with the satnav promising a simple left at the farm track, yet somehow ended up reversing into a hedge twice before the lane finally narrowed to a single width. By the time we bumped down the last gravel stretch to Karrek, the cottage was already glowing in that low, late-afternoon light that makes everything look like a postcard someone’s kept for years.

The first thing that struck me was how the place seemed to belong to the field rather than sit on it. Stone walls the colour of wet sand, a slate roof that matched the sea, and a little wooden gate that creaked like it had opinions. We dropped the bags, kicked off shoes still gritty from the hedge incident, and wandered straight out the back, telling ourselves we’d only go as far as the dunes.

Of course we didn’t stop there. A narrow path we hadn’t noticed wound between marram grass and came out on a pocket of beach I’m certain isn’t on any map the tourists use. Driftwood arranged itself into a half-circle around a fire-scarred patch of sand; someone must light one most evenings, yet there wasn’t a soul about. We perched on a log, shared the slightly-squashed pasties we’d bought in Tintagel, and watched a cormorant dive like it was showing off.

Later, still mildly lost, we followed what looked like a rabbit track up the low cliff and found ourselves in a sheltered dip where thrift grew in shocking pink clumps. A kestrel hovered so close I could see the bars on its tail; for a ridiculous moment I felt the urge to applaud. The path petered out beside a dry-stone wall half-swallowed by brambles, and we turned back only when the light started to leak out of the sky.

Back at Karrek the kettle whistled as if it had been waiting. We sat on the step with mugs of tea, feet sandy, and admitted that getting the turning wrong had been the best bit of the day. Sometimes the map is useful, but the hedge knows better.