We set off for Sea Mist in Padstow on a damp Friday morning, the satnav cheerfully promising a scenic route that promptly led us down a single-track lane barely wider than the car. Halfway along, a tractor appeared round the bend and we spent five minutes executing an awkward three-point shuffle in a gateway while the driver watched with mild amusement. By the time we reached the cottage, our nerves were frayed and the sky had cleared just enough to hint at the sea beyond the dunes.

The first thing that struck me was how tucked away Sea Mist felt, half-hidden behind a low hedge and a gravel drive that crunched underfoot like breakfast cereal. Inside, the kitchen still smelled faintly of toast from the last guests, and the living-room window framed a slice of estuary that looked close enough to touch. We dropped our bags, made tea in mismatched mugs, and decided a short wander before supper would help us shake off the journey.

Instead of heading straight for the main beach path, we followed a narrow track that branched off behind the garden fence. It wound through bracken and gorse, then dipped into a shallow valley I’m certain wasn’t on any map we’d glanced at. After ten minutes the bracken gave way to a ribbon of sand no wider than a pavement, tucked between two rocky outcrops. A couple of locals were quietly crabbing from the rocks with buckets and string; they nodded as if we’d always belonged there. We spent an hour watching the tide creep in around our shoes, the only sounds the slap of water and distant gulls.

Later, still mildly lost, we climbed a stile that led onto a field path running parallel to the coast. The path petered out near an abandoned stone barn whose roof had long since surrendered to ivy. From its doorway we could see the whole sweep of Daymer Bay without another soul in sight, just the low sun turning the wet sand copper. It felt like a private viewing arranged especially for two slightly dishevelled holidaymakers who’d taken a wrong turn.

By the time we found our way back to Sea Mist the light was fading and the cottage windows glowed warmly. We cooked pasta on the slightly temperamental hob, laughing about the tractor standoff and the accidental discovery of that miniature cove. Sitting on the doorstep with mugs of wine, I realised how rarely we let ourselves wander without a plan. The mishap on the lane had nudged us off the usual route, and in doing so had handed us an afternoon of quiet, unplanned magic that no guidebook could have scripted.