I’ll never forget the drive down to Cornwall last summer – me behind the wheel of our trusty old estate car, sat-nav chirping away like it knew better than the winding A-roads. We’d set off from Bristol full of beans, dreaming of pasties and sea air, but about an hour in, disaster struck: a rogue seagull decided our windscreen was its personal dive-bombing target. Splattered with what I can only describe as nature’s revenge, we pulled over near Bodmin Moor for an emergency clean-up with wet wipes and a lot of laughter. “Welcome to the West Country,” my other half quipped, as we finally pressed on, hearts a bit lighter despite the pong.

By late afternoon, we rolled up to this gorgeous detached house just outside Bodmin, all cosy and inviting with its big windows framing the countryside. First impressions? Spot on. The place felt like a proper home from home, with space to sprawl out and views that had us grinning like kids on Christmas morning. We dumped the bags, cracked open a couple of tins, and planned our week around one thing: walking. Cornwall’s got trails for days, and with the house smack in the middle of it all, we were spoilt for choice.

Day one dawned bright and breezy – perfect for a stomp up to Jamaica Inn on the moor. That crisp air hit you like a tonic, gorse buzzing with bees and ponies wandering free. We wandered the old smuggling paths, stopping for cream teas at the inn (jam first, obviously), feeling like we’d stepped into a Daphne du Maurier novel. I even managed a daft selfie with a foggy backdrop, pretending to be a ghost. But oh, the weather – that’s the real star of any Cornish jaunt. By day three, the skies turned biblical. Lashing rain turned our planned loop around Cardinham Woods into a muddy slog, boots squelching like they were auditioning for a swamp movie. We battled on, hoods up, laughing at the puddles that swallowed our ankles whole. “This is character-building,” I yelled over the gale, secretly wondering if my socks would ever dry.

The next morning brought a sneaky blue patch, so we switched to the Camel Trail – well, the bit heading towards Bodmin from the house, dead easy to reach. Flat and fabulous along the old railway, with buzzards overhead and the river sparkling below. We picnicked on pasties from the local bakery, watching barges chug by. But come afternoon, mist rolled in thick as clotted cream, forcing an early retreat. Back at the house, dripping but chuffed, we huddled by the fire with tea and board games. It got me thinking – isn’t that the joy of these holidays? You pack grand plans, but the weather has the last laugh, turning epic hikes into soggy adventures that stick with you longer than any postcard view.

A couple more days of dodging showers led us on shorter loops around the nearby woods and reservoirs, like Colliford Lake’s gentle paths when the sun played peekaboo. Each walk was a surprise: golden hours one minute, horizontal rain the next. By the end of the week, we’d clocked miles of blisters and memories, driving home with that proper holiday glow. Cornwall’s walks are magic, rain or shine – just pack the waterproofs and a sense of humour. Can’t wait to go back.