We’d barely made it past Helston when the satnav decided we didn’t need the last turning after all, and before we knew it we were bumping along a single-track lane that narrowed with every bramble. The “small mishap” turned into a proper detour when a tractor blocked the only passing place, forcing us to reverse into someone’s driveway while a Jack Russell barked encouragement from the gate. By the time we finally rolled into Porthleven an hour later than planned, the sea looked almost apologetic, glinting under a sky the colour of weak tea.

Sparrows Nest sat just above the harbour wall, a whitewashed cottage with a slate roof and a front step worn smooth by decades of sandy boots. The key was under the flowerpot exactly as promised, and the first thing that greeted us inside was the faint smell of woodsmoke and the sea. We dropped our bags, made a cup of tea that tasted faintly of holiday, and stepped straight back out again, determined not to waste what was left of the afternoon.

Instead of heading straight down to the main beach we followed a footpath that seemed to peel off behind the lifeboat station. It climbed between stone walls thick with red valerian, then dipped unexpectedly into a sheltered cove we hadn’t spotted on any map. The tide was out, leaving rock pools the size of paddling pools, and a single fishing boat rested on its side like it had decided to nap. We spent a ridiculous amount of time watching hermit crabs argue over a mussel shell, and only noticed the light changing when our shadows stretched long across the sand.

Further along the same unofficial path we stumbled on an old lime kiln half-hidden by gorse, its arch framing a slice of turquoise water. A handwritten sign nailed to a post warned of “unstable ground and inquisitive sheep,” which felt about right for Cornwall. We sat on the warm stone for a while, listening to the gulls and the distant thump of waves against the harbour wall, and it struck me how often the best bits of a trip happen when you stop trying to tick things off a list.

By the time we wandered back, the cottage windows were glowing and the smell of someone else’s fish and chips drifted up from the street below. We cooked a slapdash pasta on the little electric hob, then carried our bowls outside to eat on the bench that overlooks the water. The mishap on the lane already felt like part of the story rather than an inconvenience, the sort of small chaos that nudges you toward places you’d never have found otherwise. As the last ferry light blinked on the horizon I realised that sometimes getting properly lost is the only way to arrive somewhere properly.