I’ll never forget the drive down to St Ives – we’d piled into the car in Bristol full of pasties and excitement, only for me to take a wrong turn just past Truro and end up in a queue of caravans crawling along the A30. Typical me, relying on sat-nav but ignoring the signs for “local traffic only.” By the time we finally trundled up that driveway in a quiet residential spot, the sun was dipping low, and we were all knackered but buzzing with that holiday anticipation.

Stepping inside was pure magic, though. Quite simply one of St Ives’ finest and most luxurious holiday homes, perched overlooking Porthmeor Beach, the Atlantic Ocean, and that rugged north Cornwall coast. The wow factor hit immediately – through the hallway into this massive living room with floor-to-ceiling glass windows letting light flood in, those views were stunning whatever the weather promised. Superb kitchen, a long table for us lot to scoff dinners around, and huge cosy sofas perfect for flopping with a film on the drop-down electric screen and full HD projector with surround sound. It was spot-on for our group of mates and families, everything you could want.

First morning, we laced up our boots for a hike along the coast path towards Porthminster Beach – clear skies, not a cloud in sight, and the sea sparkling like it was showing off. We wandered past little coves, chatting nonsense, stopping for pasties from a beach kiosk. Proper Cornish bliss, with gulls wheeling overhead and the path dipping right to the waves. Felt like we’d cracked the secret to summer.

But oh, British weather – it loves a plot twist. Come afternoon, the fog rolled in thick as clotted cream from the Atlantic, turning our planned loop to Carbis Bay into a proper adventure. Visibility down to ten feet, we were stumbling along like extras in a foggy Hitchcock flick, laughing our heads off while clinging to the cliffs. “Mind the edge, you daft lot!” I yelled, heart thumping a bit. We made it back soaked but grinning, piling into those sofas for tea and a movie, the rain lashing the windows while we toasted our survival.

Next day, grey skies again, so we switched to a shorter stroll up to the Island – that tidal walk across the harbour, dodging rock pools and peering at seals. Wind howling, but the views peeking through were worth it. I had a proper moment there, sat on a bench out of the gale, thinking how these walks, good or grim, remind you to just go with it. Life’s too short for staying put, innit? Especially with a house like this as base camp.

By week’s end, we’d hiked every weather the coast could chuck at us – sun-drenched dawdles to Bamford Beach, misty marathons back from Lelant, even a rainy tramp around town past the Tate St Ives. Plans changed hourly with the clouds, but that’s the joy of it. St Ives on foot is unbeatable, and crashing back to those epic views each night? Perfection. Can’t wait to go again.