I’ll never forget the drive down to St Ives – we’d set off from Truro full of beans, singing along to some dodgy 90s playlist, only for the sat-nav to chuck a wobbly just past Carbis Bay. It insisted we take a “scenic route” that turned out to be a narrow lane barely wide enough for a pram, with hedges clawing at the car like they were auditioning for a horror flick. Heart in mouth, we reversed for what felt like miles until a cheery postie in a battered van waved us into a passing spot. “First time, eh? Stick to the main drag next time, love!” he chuckled, tipping his cap. Saved by a proper character right off the bat.

By the time we pulled up, I was buzzing with that mix of relief and excitement – you know, when you’re dying for a cuppa and a proper gander at the place. It’s this cracking reverse-level townhouse perched right on the clifftop, all sleek lines and that jaw-dropping sea view that hits you like a wave. Off-road parking was a godsend after our little adventure, and the private terrace with its hot tub? Well, that sealed the deal. Ground floor’s got two belting bedrooms – a king with its own en-suite shower for a sneaky lie-in, and a twin that zips into a super-king if you fancy, plus a bathroom with a bath big enough to soak away the drive’s stress. First impressions? Bloody marvellous, even if I did say so myself.

But honestly, the real magic of the stay was the folk we bumped into – St Ives is crawling with proper characters. First morning, I nipped down to Porthmeor Beach for a pasty from Phil’s (you’ve got to, haven’t you?), and there’s this old codger with a beard like a bird’s nest, regaling a gaggle of surfers with tales of the ’70s art scene. “Turner himself painted these cliffs, but he’d have loved the hot tub life!” he winked, nodding at my flip-flops. Couldn’t help but laugh – he reckoned the local seals were the best critics, barking approval at bad brushstrokes.

Later, strolling the harbour, we got chatting to Madge behind the counter at a tiny fudge shop on Fore Street. She’s all wiry energy and twinkly eyes, doling out samples like they’re going out of fashion. “Hot tub on the cliff? You’re living the dream, duckie,” she said, slipping us an extra chunk of clotted cream flavour. Turned out her nephew’s a potter up at the Barbara Hepworth Museum – she insisted we pop in, whispering conspiratorially about the “secret bench” with the best view. We did, and blimey, she wasn’t wrong.

Evenings were for bubbling in that hot tub, watching the sun dip over the Atlantic, but the chats kept coming. One night, a fisherman type leaned over the terrace fence (privacy’s relative here) with a yarn about smuggling pilchards back in the day. “Clifftop’s prime for spotting the coastguard!” he grinned. I found myself reflecting, glass of wine in hand, on how these encounters make you slow down – no rushing about, just proper natter with locals who’ve got stories etched into their faces like the tide on the rocks.

We left buzzing, promising ourselves a return. St Ives isn’t just the views; it’s the people who make it sing.