We set off from the station with the usual mix of excitement and mild disorganisation, only for me to realise halfway along the coastal path that I’d left the cottage key in the car. By the time we’d trudged back, laughing at our own forgetfulness, the sun had already slipped behind a bank of Cornish cloud and the breeze had turned decidedly fresh.

Portside sits just above the harbour in Porthleven, its whitewashed walls catching whatever light sneaks through. The front door opens straight onto a narrow lane that drops down to the slipway, so after finally getting inside we dumped our bags and headed straight out again, determined to make the most of what was left of the afternoon.

The South West Coast Path begins practically on the doorstep. We followed it west, boots crunching over gravel and springy grass, the sea a restless grey-green below us. Every few hundred metres a new cove appeared, some with tiny shingle beaches, others just rocky shelves where cormorants stood drying their wings. We kept saying we’d turn back at the next headland, but the path kept tempting us onward until the first spots of rain arrived.

We sheltered under a gorse bush that offered more attitude than cover, watching the clouds chase each other across Mount’s Bay. When the shower passed we carried on as far as the old coastguard cottages at Loe Bar, then admitted the weather had won. Turning back, we took the inland route across the fields, boots now caked in mud, swapping stories about every previous holiday ruined by optimistic packing.

By the time we reached the cottage again the harbour was busy with locals walking dogs and kids still paddling despite the chill. We boiled the kettle, pulled on dry socks, and sat by the window watching the light fade over the water. It struck me, not for the first time, how little control we ever have over a Cornish weekend; the weather decides the plot and we simply fill in the gaps with pasties and laughter.