We’d barely pulled up outside Atlantic Watch 8 when the satnav cheerfully announced we’d arrived – right as the boot popped open and half our beach bags tumbled onto the pavement. A gust off the bay caught one of the tote handles and sent a bright pink towel flapping down the lane like a wayward kite. My partner chased it while I stood there, keys in hand, wondering whether the cottage had witnessed more dramatic entrances than ours.

Once everything was gathered, we stepped inside and the day shifted down several gears. Sunlight poured through the big windows onto pale sofas and a scrubbed wooden table already set with mismatched mugs. We didn’t unpack properly; we just kicked off shoes, grabbed the first two books that came to hand and wandered straight out again, following the short path that drops onto Carbis Bay’s wide, clean sweep of sand. The tide was out, leaving a perfect stretch for aimless strolling. We walked until our feet found the edge of the water, then turned back, already planning nothing more than lunch on the little deck.

That first afternoon set the tone for the whole stay. Mornings began with coffee on the bench outside, watching the light change on the water while gulls wheeled overhead. One day we spread a blanket on the sand and read until the pages grew too warm to hold; another we simply sat on the cottage steps with takeaway pasties from the bakery up the hill, brushing crumbs off our laps and agreeing we’d earned the second round of tea. The sea kept up its soft soundtrack, and every so often a dog would trot past with a stick too big for its mouth, giving us an excuse to look up and smile.

By the third morning the mishap with the flying towel felt like the perfect introduction to a week of deliberate slowness. We’d planned to “do” St Ives properly – galleries, harbour walks, maybe a boat – but the cottage and the beach conspired against ambition. Instead we drifted between the two, carrying paperbacks down to the tideline, coming back only when hunger or the need for shade nudged us. Even the small chores felt gentle: rinsing sandy feet under the outside tap, hanging damp towels on the line where they dried in minutes.

Looking back, that pink towel chase was the last bit of hurry we allowed ourselves. Everything after it asked only that we notice the warmth on our skin, the sound of waves folding onto sand, and the simple pleasure of having nowhere else to be.