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 drizzle of Devon, me navigating with my trusty phone, hubby at the wheel, and the kids bickering in the back over crisps. About 20 minutes from Carbis Bay, I misread a roundabout sign (turns out “St Ives” looks a lot like “sit tight” when you’re starving), and we ended up on a narrow lane that dead-ended at some farmer’s gate. Cue much reversing and laughter – a proper comedy of errors that set the tone for a holiday full of happy accidents.

Pulling up to our luxury apartment on Valley Road, my heart did a little flip. From the off, those massive windows in the open-plan living space hit us like a postcard come to life: panoramic views stretching across St Ives Bay to Godrevy lighthouse and the golden sands of Gwithian. It’s the sort of place that sleeps six comfy in three bedrooms, perfect for our lot, with that family-friendly vibe and easy access – a quick bus into St Ives or a wander down the valley to Carbis Bay’s Blue Flag beach. First impressions? Blimey, we’d struck gold.

But the real magic happened when we ditched the guidebook and let curiosity lead. Day two, aiming for the bustling harbour in St Ives, we took a “shortcut” through the back lanes of Carbis Bay. Lost in minutes, we stumbled on a hidden cove tucked below the coastal path – Porthkidney Sands, all but deserted, with seals bobbing offshore like cheeky locals waving hello. We spent hours there, paddling in rock pools and picnicking on pasties from a nearby van, far from the selfie-stick crowds.

The next mishap was even better. Wandering back from the beach, we veered off into the valley trails, chasing a glimpse of some wildflowers the kids spotted. Proper got-lost territory, with brambles snagging trousers and me pretending I knew where we were. Popped out at a secret garden spot near Lelant Saltings – an old tidal marsh hideaway with wading birds and butterflies everywhere. No tourists, just us and the rustle of reeds. Sat there with flasks of tea, watching the light dance on the water. Made me reflect a bit – back home, life’s all schedules and screens; here, getting lost felt like the point.

Even in St Ives proper, our off-piste radar shone. Instead of the main drags, a wrong turn down an alley led to a tucked-away artist’s nook behind the Tate St Ives, where a chap was painting en plein air and flogging seascapes cheaper than the galleries. Bargained for one (hubby’s negotiating skills finally paid off), and it’s now pride of place on our mantel.

Those serendipitous finds – the quiet coves, marshy gems, and lane-end treasures – turned our stay into something special. Proves you don’t need a map to find the best bits; sometimes, a daft detour’s all it takes. Can’t wait to get lost there again.