We set off from the station with the sun already doing its best impression of summer, only for the heavens to open the moment we reached the lane leading down to Lanyon. My partner was convinced the postcode was wrong, so we spent ten minutes wheeling our cases through a fine Cornish drizzle before realising we’d walked straight past the little slate-roofed cottage and were now staring at the neighbour’s wheelie bin. By the time we doubled back, we were both laughing and slightly damp, but the front door opened onto a bright, low-ceilinged room that smelled faintly of sea salt and toast.

First impressions were all about the view. From the tiny kitchen window you could see the harbour wall and the curve of the bay, and even with the rain still tapping the glass it looked inviting. We dumped our bags, pulled on waterproofs, and decided a short stroll along the coastal path would be the perfect way to shake off the journey. The path starts right behind the houses and climbs gently towards the cliffs, giving you that satisfying mix of open sea on one side and rolling fields on the other.

Of course, within half an hour the weather had other ideas. The drizzle turned into proper rain, and the wind picked up enough to make conversation a shouted affair. We ducked into the shelter of an old stone wall, shared a slightly squashed pasty we’d bought at the harbour café, and watched the waves crash against the rocks below. It felt very British: optimistic waterproofs, optimistic plans, and a sudden need to recalibrate. Rather than pushing on, we turned back towards the village, stopping to watch a fishing boat come in and unload its catch on the slipway.

Back at Lanyon we peeled off our soggy layers and made tea in proper Cornish mugs. The cottage felt instantly homely, with a little wood-burner ready for chillier evenings and a sofa positioned perfectly for harbour-watching. We spread our wet things over the radiator and settled in with a map of the local footpaths, already planning tomorrow’s route in case the sun decided to cooperate.

Later, once the rain eased, we wandered down to the beach for a quick paddle. The sand was still warm from the earlier sunshine, and a few brave souls were braving the shallows. We walked the length of the cove, picking up the odd shell and chatting about how quickly plans change by the sea. It struck me, watching the light shift over the water, how often I pack a rigid itinerary only to have the weather gently remind me that spontaneity is half the fun. That small, soggy arrival had set the tone: a weekend of coastal walks, flexible plans, and the quiet satisfaction of being exactly where we were meant to be.