I’ll never forget the drive down to St Ives – or rather, the near-disaster that kicked it off. We’d piled into the car in the pouring rain somewhere near Exeter, me navigating with a dodgy sat-nav that decided to throw a wobbly just as we hit the twisty A30. It sent us on a wild detour through some back lane that felt more like a goat track, complete with a scraped wing mirror courtesy of a rogue hedge. Still, by the time we rolled into Carbis Bay, hearts racing but laughing about it, the sun had broken through, and there it was: this cosy holiday home, all welcoming and tucked away just like the listing promised. A comfortable spot to base ourselves, with that beautiful sandy beach right there for lazing on, crystal clear water for paddling, and coastal paths galore for meandering along. First impressions? Spot on – we dumped the bags and cracked open a pasty from the local bakery down the road.

From the off, I was dead set on avoiding the tourist crush in St Ives proper. You know, the Porthmeor crowds and all that. Instead, we let ourselves get properly lost, and blimey, that’s when the magic happened. First hidden gem was stumbling on Porth Kidney Sands by accident – we’d wandered off the path from our place, following a whim down some unmarked steps, and suddenly there’s this curve of golden sand backed by dunes, barely a soul in sight. We paddled in the shallows, the water so clear you could see tiny crabs scuttling about. Felt like we’d gatecrashed someone else’s secret.

Next day, fueled by a fry-up from the beach café, we veered off the main coastal path towards Trenissick. Got properly disoriented in the best way – the gorse scratching our legs, gulls wheeling overhead – and ended up at this tucked-away cove I’ve since learned is dead quiet even in peak season. Just us, a thermos of tea, and the waves crashing on rocks that looked like they’d been sculpted by a mad artist. I sat there for ages, chuckling at how I’d spent years rushing through life back home, and here I was, faffing about with no agenda. Gentle reminder that slowing down uncovers the good stuff.

The real cracker came on a misty afternoon wander from Carbis Bay. We took a wrong turn (again) up towards the cliffs, away from the train line buzz, and found ourselves at an old smugglers’ path snaking down to a pebbly beach called Hawk’s Point or something like that – no signs, no maps, just whispers of wind. Picnicked on cheese pasties and watched seals bob in the bay below. Pure fluke, but it beat any guidebook itinerary.

Getting lost became our holiday vibe, weaving back through Lelant salt marshes at dusk, spotting herons where no one else bothers. That comfy home was the perfect launchpad – evenings by the window with a GandT, plotting the next meander. Left me reflecting: sometimes the best adventures aren’t planned; they’re the ones you bump into when you let the path decide. Can’t wait to go back and lose myself all over again.