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 Bristol, kids buzzing with excitement, me promising pasties at the first services. But halfway through Cornwall’s twisty lanes, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us down a single-track road that dead-ended at a sheep-strewn cliff. Hearts in mouths, we reversed for what felt like miles, laughing it off as a proper Cornish welcome. By the time we crested the hill into Carbis Bay, the anticipation was electric – that first glimpse of the sea sparkling under the sun had us all grinning like idiots.

Pulling up to our spot, a luxury duplex penthouse perched right above the beach, I was gobsmacked. Perfectly positioned with elevated panoramic views across St Ives Bay, it’s got this sleek contemporary vibe inside – open-plan living split between a cosy seating area and dining spot, both framing the water like a living postcard. Two minutes’ stroll to the sand and sea, it screamed family heaven. We dumped the bags and cracked open the windows to that salty breeze – first impressions? Bloody brilliant, even if I did trip over the kids’ sandals on the way in.

But here’s the thing: St Ives is rammed with the usual suspects – Porthmeor Beach surfers, Barbara Hepworth galleries, queues for fudge. We did a bit of that, sure, but the real magic happened when we ditched the map and got properly lost. First hidden gem was sheer accident. Wandering from Carbis Bay along the coast path one morning, we veered off onto a faint trail (signs be damned) and stumbled into a tiny cove at Porth Kidney Sands. Barely a soul there, just us paddling in rock pools teeming with crabs, the kids shrieking as they chased waves. It felt like we’d nicked a secret from the locals – turquoise water lapping at our toes, cliffs shielding us from the world.

The next day, fueled by cream teas from a beachside kiosk, we aimed for town but took a wrong turn up through the dunes. Lost again, we found ourselves in a labyrinth of narrow lanes behind Lelant, unearthing The Diggers Hut – this unassuming beach café tucked away where no tourist app would dare list it. Fresh crab sandwiches, chips fried in beef dripping, and owners who chatted like old mates about the best low-tide clambering spots. We lolled there for hours, watching gulls swoop over the bay.

Our pièce de résistance came on a drizzly afternoon. Instead of the Tate, we followed a whim along the cliffs towards Hawk’s Point, scrambling down a barely-there path to a secluded nook called Little Porthmeor. No crowds, just pounding surf, seals barking offshore, and a thermos of tea from the penthouse. Sitting there, waves crashing below those insane views from our perch, I had a proper moment. Me, the eternal planner, realising the best bits aren’t ticked off lists – they’re the detours, the “oops, where now?” flubs. Getting lost taught us Cornwall’s quiet pulse, those off-the-beaten-track pockets where the bay feels like yours alone.

Back at the penthouse each evening, sprawled in that open living space with the sun dipping over St Ives Bay, we’d relive it all. If you’re after a holiday that’s more serendipity than schedule, this is it – mishaps and all. We’re already plotting the return.