We’d barely left the M5 when the sat-nav decided to take us on a scenic detour through a maze of single-track lanes that weren’t really wide enough for one car, let alone two. By the time we rolled up outside Trevean, the cottage looked smaller than I’d pictured and the car was coated in a fine layer of Cornish dust. The key was meant to be under a flowerpot, but after five minutes of lifting every pot in sight I realised I’d been trying next door’s. A neighbour finally wandered over with the right one, chuckling at our red faces, and we tumbled inside laughing.

First impressions were all about the light. The living room opened straight onto a little patio where you could sit with a cuppa and watch gulls wheeling over the dunes. We dropped our bags, made tea in mismatched mugs, and decided to stretch our legs before unpacking properly. The beach path was meant to be “five minutes,” according to the folder on the table, but we managed to miss the turning twice and ended up on a narrow track that wound between brambles and tall grass.

Half an hour later we found ourselves at a tiny cove we hadn’t seen on any map. The tide was out, leaving a perfect stretch of damp sand and rock pools glinting in the late sun. No one else was there—just us, a couple of oystercatchers, and the sound of waves hissing over pebbles. We spent ages poking about in the pools, finding tiny crabs and a shell that looked exactly like a teacup. It felt like we’d stumbled on our own private beach, and the mishap with the sat-nav suddenly seemed like the best thing that could have happened.

On the way back we took another wrong turn and discovered an old stone stile half-hidden by hawthorn. Beyond it lay a field sloping gently down to a quiet creek where a single rowing boat bobbed against a wooden jetty. We sat on the grass for a while, watching a heron stand statue-still in the shallows. It was the sort of spot you’d never notice if you stuck to the main paths, and I felt oddly grateful for our terrible sense of direction.

Back at Trevean the kettle was still warm from earlier, so we made fresh tea and carried it outside again. The light had softened into that golden Cornish glow that makes everything look gentler. I found myself thinking how easy it is, these days, to plan every minute of a holiday down to the last detail, yet the best bits had come from getting completely lost. Maybe next time we’d leave the sat-nav in the glovebox on purpose.