I’ll never forget the drive down to St Ives – we’d set off from Plymouth full of beans, windows down, singing along to some dodgy 90s playlist. But about halfway, disaster struck: a rogue seagull decided our windscreen was the perfect target for its lunch. Splatter everywhere! We pulled over laughing our heads off, me wiping it with a pack of wet wipes while my other half took selfies of the carnage. “Welcome to Cornwall,” I said, and off we went again, the anticipation building as the roads twisted towards the coast.

Pulling up to our spot perched high above St Ives Bay, I was gobsmacked. This two-bedroom penthouse apartment was pure luxury – uninterrupted sea views from the open-plan living area and a balcony that felt like it hung right over the waves. Floor-to-ceiling glass let the light flood in, bouncing off vaulted ceilings and oak floors, making everything feel bright and endless. We dumped the bags and straight out onto that seaward-facing balcony, glasses in hand, watching the bay sparkle. A short stroll to the harbour, town centre, beaches, and even the scenic railway, but honestly? Who needed to rush?

Our holiday was all about doing sod all, and it was bliss. Mornings kicked off lazy: I’d potter into the kitchen, brew a pot of tea, and slide open those doors to let the sea air waft through while the other half lounged on the plush five-seater corner sofa. We’d crack open books – mine a battered Poldark novel, hers some thriller – and lose hours gazing at the horizon. The Smart TV was there if we fancied a binge, but mostly it was just us, the view, and the gentle crash of waves below. Lunch? Whatever was in the fridge, eaten al fresco on the balcony, toes up on the furniture, watching dog walkers on the beach far below.

Afternoons melted into siestas. I’d nod off with a book on my chest, waking to find the sun dipping lower, painting the sky in those mad Cornish pinks and oranges. No itinerary, no alarms – just pure, unadulterated slowing down. One day we wandered five minutes to Porthminster Beach, grabbed pasties from a beach shack, and flopped on the sand like beached seals, too idle to even swim. Back at the flat, we’d cosy up as evening drew in, maybe crack a bottle of local white, and let the world fade. It slept four easy, welcoming kids over eight, but for us it was the perfect romantic escape – no little ones clamouring for attention.

Looking back, I realise how knackered I’d been before we came. Work, life, the usual grind – it all dissolved there. That gentle self-reflection hit me one sunset, book forgotten, just staring out: why don’t we make more time for this? Nothing fancy, no grand adventures, just the joy of a holiday property that let us breathe. If you’re after a family break or a sneaky couple’s getaway, find yourself a perch like this in St Ives. Do bugger all. You won’t regret it.