I’ll never forget the drive down to St Ives – we’d set off from Truro full of beans, windows down, singing along to some cheesy 90s playlist. But about halfway, disaster struck: a wrong turn onto one of those impossibly narrow Cornish lanes, the kind where hedges swallow your wing mirrors. We ended up wedged between a tractor and a post van, hearts racing, laughing like idiots as we reversed for what felt like miles. By the time we arrived, though, all that stress melted away. Pulling up to our second-floor apartment overlooking Porthminster Beach at Carrack Widden, on that sunny terrace in St Ives, I was buzzing with anticipation. One glimpse through the large window into the open-plan living area, and bam – stunning sea views everywhere, the beach like a postcard right there while you cook or flop on the plush sofa. Perfect for us two (plus our bubba in tow), with the bistro table screaming ‘morning coffee with waves crashing below’.

First impressions? Magic. That view from the living room flows through every moment – Netflix on the 55-inch telly or PS4 games after tea, all with Cornwall’s gentle rhythm outside. It’s a short stroll to the beaches, harbour, town centre, even the scenic railway, but honestly, we barely needed to go far. What turned our stay into pure gold were the hidden gems we stumbled on by accident, especially when we embraced getting properly lost.

Day two, we wandered off the main drag down a sneaky path behind the Tate St Ives, away from the tatty souvenir stalls. No map, just following our noses – suddenly, we’re on a clifftop trail to a wild cove called Porthminster Point. Empty except for seals barking below, wildflowers everywhere, and not a soul in sight. We picnicked on pasties from a hole-in-the-wall baker we’d found the day before (flaky, proper job), watching gulls dive-bomb. Pure bliss, the kind of spot tourists miss chasing the harbour crowds.

Then there was the afternoon we took a ‘wrong’ turn up towards Carbis Bay. Instead of the beach road, we veered onto a footpath through dunes dotted with marram grass. Ended up at this tucked-away tidal pool, crystal clear and warmed by the sun, where locals swim year-round. Our little one splashed about while we skimmed stones – no signs, no fuss, just us and the sea. I sat there, feet dangling, thinking how daft it is we’re always rushing. Why chase the obvious when getting lost like this recharges the soul? A gentle nudge to slow down, innit?

Evening strolls led to more serendipity: a forgotten smugglers’ alley off Wharf Road, lined with wonky fishermen’s cottages bursting with hydrangeas, where we found a tiny art studio open late. The chap inside, paint-splattered beard and all, flogged us a quirky seascape for a tenner. Chuckled later over fish suppers on the terrace, toasting to mishaps.

Even the railway jaunt turned hidden-gem-ish – hopped on for a whim, alighted early at a quiet halt, and bushwhacked to a secluded beach nook with caves perfect for echoey games. St Ives has this knack for rewarding wanderers; those off-the-beaten paths, discovered by sheer faffing about, made our romantic family break unforgettable. If you’re heading there, ditch the guidebook – get lost, and let the magic find you.