We’d barely made it past the outskirts of St Ives when the satnav decided we’d had quite enough of its nonsense and sent us down a lane so narrow the wing mirrors practically kissed the hedgerows. Ten minutes later we were nowhere near Miramar and thoroughly lost, which is how we ended up parking beside a tiny cove I’d never even seen on the map. The tide was out, the sand still damp from the morning, and a single fishing boat rested on its side like it had simply given up for the day. We wandered down, shoes in hand, and spent a ridiculous amount of time poking about in rock pools while the real check-in time ticked past.

By the time we found the right turning, Miramar was waiting at the end of a short track with that slightly weathered look beach cottages always seem to wear so well. The key was under the flowerpot exactly as promised, and the first thing that hit us was the smell of salt and warm wood. We dropped our bags, flung open the back door, and there was the sea, just across the lane and a strip of grass, the water glinting like someone had scattered sequins. I’d expected to feel instantly relaxed; instead I felt oddly impatient, as if the cottage itself was nudging us back outside.

We followed a footpath that started right behind the garden wall and promptly lost it again within five minutes, ending up on a stretch of dunes that felt far too quiet for somewhere so close to town. A narrow trail wound between tufts of marram grass and opened onto another little bay, this one empty except for a couple walking their dog and a man painting something that may or may not have been the view. We stayed longer than planned, sitting on a low wall and watching the light change, then realised we had no idea how to get back. The path we’d come down had vanished behind a bend, so we simply followed the line of rooftops until we popped out near the harbour, slightly sandy and thoroughly pleased with ourselves.

Later, after a quick shop for pasties, we took the long way home along the coastal track that hugs the edge of the fields. Every few hundred yards another tiny inlet appeared, each one different, each one apparently missed by the guidebooks. I kept thinking how strange it was that getting lost had turned into the actual point of the trip. Back at Miramar the kettle whistled and the windows rattled gently in the breeze, and I found myself wondering whether we’d have noticed any of it if the satnav had behaved itself in the first place.