I’ll never forget the drive down to Padstow – or rather, the near-disaster that kicked it off. We’d piled into the car from Bristol, kids buzzing in the back with snacks flying everywhere, and me navigating via a dodgy phone signal. About halfway, just past Bodmin, I took a wrong turn onto some narrow lane that looked promising on the map but turned into a muddy quagmire after a sneaky puddle. The car fishtailed like it was auditioning for a rally, and we ended up stuck for 20 minutes, laughing hysterically while the dog licked the windows. Rescued by a passing farmer with a tractor – classic Cornwall, that – we finally rolled into Crantock as the sun dipped low, hearts racing with that proper holiday anticipation.

Pulling onto the private driveway of this cracking five-bedroom house felt like arriving at a mate’s posh pad. It’s got that contemporary vibe inside, all sleek and inviting, with an enclosed garden and a hot tub that screamed relaxation. We tumbled through the front garden, dumped the bags, and collapsed onto the plush corner sofa in the sitting room, firing up the massive 65-inch Smart TV to catch our breath. First impressions? Spot on – luxury without the fuss, perfect for our lot of ten.

But the real magic kicked in when we ditched the sat-nav and embraced getting lost. Padstow’s buzzing with its pasty shops and harbour vibes, but we veered off for hidden gems by accident. First morning, aiming for the beach, we missed the main turn and stumbled onto a tiny path snaking through dunes towards Crantock Beach. It was blissfully empty – just us, seals barking offshore, and waves crashing on golden sand. No crowds, no chip queues; we built epic sandcastles and let the kids run wild.

Next day, hunting for a pub lunch, we took a “shortcut” through lanes near the Camel Estuary and found ourselves at a secluded spot by the river, where a little wooden bench overlooked kayakers paddling past. Picnicked there instead – cheese pasties from a Newquay bakery we’d grabbed en route – with herons eyeing us suspiciously. Pure serendipity. Evenings, we’d fire up the games room (pool table showdowns got competitive), then bubble in the hot tub, swapping tales of the day’s detours.

One afternoon, properly lost on the cliffs towards Porthcothan Bay – only a couple of miles up – we discovered a secret cove you’d never spot on a map. Sheer drops, wildflowers everywhere, and a freshwater stream trickling to the sea. We swam in the rock pools, spotting crabs the size of saucers. I sat there later, towel-dried and windswept, reflecting on how these unplanned jaunts beat any itinerary. Life’s too short for sticking to the path; getting lost reminds you why you came.

Back at the house, we’d debrief over barbecues in the garden, plotting the next wander. Padstow holidays like this? They’re not about the guidebook – it’s the accidental treasures that stick. Can’t wait to lose ourselves there again.