I’ll never forget the drive down to St Ives – a proper Cornish road trip that started with high hopes and ended with me swearing at the sat-nav (under my breath, mind). We’d left Bristol early, windows down, singing along to some dodgy 90s playlist, but halfway through, the heavens opened. Torrential rain turned the A30 into a snaking river, and then – splash – we hit a massive puddle that soaked the windscreen wipers into oblivion. Fifteen minutes of squinting and a hasty petrol station wipe-down later, we finally spotted the sea-glinting town nestled on its cliffs. My heart did a little flip; after all that, St Ives looked like a postcard come to life.

Pulling up to our spot – this cracking terraced duplex apartment spread over the first, second, and third floors, just a stone’s throw from the beach – I was buzzing. It’s got that perfect location: shops and a cosy pub round the corner, and you can practically hear the waves from the doorstep. Three bedrooms (two kings on the middle floor, a twin up top) and a shower room that’s spotless – ideal for our little crew of four. First impressions? Blown away. We dumped the bags, cracked open a pasty from the nearby shop, and stepped out into what was now glorious sunshine. Cornwall, you tease.

Day one, we laced up our boots for the classic coastal path hike from Porthmeor Beach round to Carbis Bay. The weather was on our side – blue skies, that salty breeze whipping our hair – and the views! Jagged cliffs plunging into turquoise water, seals popping up like nosy neighbours. We clambered over rocks, paused for selfies at the lifeboat station, and felt like proper adventurers. Lunch was fish and chips on the sand, sand everywhere as usual. But oh, the British weather – it’s got a wicked sense of humour. By afternoon, clouds rolled in thick as clotted cream, and a drizzle turned into a downpour mid-stride. Plans for a longer trek to Zennor? Scrapped. We dashed back, laughing like kids, clothes plastered to us.

Next morning, same story. Forecast promised sun, so off we went up to The Island, that hilly knob overlooking Porthminster Beach. Steep paths, wildflowers nodding in the wind, gulls wheeling overhead – pure magic. We wandered the labyrinth of narrow lanes, past whitewashed cottages and artist studios, pretending we lived there. But cue the mist: sudden, swirling fog that swallowed the horizon. Visibility down to ten feet, we pivoted to a gentle beach ramble instead, paddling at the edge while the rain pattered. It forced us to slow down, chat properly, spot little crabs in rock pools. Honestly, it was better than any grand hike.

By the end of the week, we’d embraced the chaos – short sunny strolls to Bamford’s or Lelant when it cleared, hunkering in the pub with a pint when it didn’t. One rainy evening, sat by the window watching the storm lash the sea, I had a proper moment. Me, always chasing the perfect plan, realised this was it: the unpredictability, the forced flexibility. St Ives taught me to roll with the weather, boots muddy and grin wide. Can’t wait to go back.