I’ll never forget the drive down to St Ives – we’d packed the car to the brim with beach gear and snacks, only for the sat-nav to chuck a wobbly just past Penzance. It sent us down some narrow lane that pinched tighter than my skinny jeans, and before we knew it, we were reversing into a hedge with a farmer’s sheep giving us the evil eye. A proper comedy of errors, but we laughed it off, and honestly, that little mishap set the tone for the whole trip: embracing the unexpected.

Pulling up to our reverse-level townhouse, hearts racing with that holiday buzz, we were gobsmacked by the first impressions. Tucked away with off-road parking – a godsend in these parts – it had this private terrace hot tub begging for evening dips, and sea views that hit you right in the feels. Downstairs, the bedrooms were pure bliss: a king-size with its own en-suite shower for stolen lie-ins, and a twin that we zipped into a super-king on request, plus a cracking family bathroom. Up top, the open-plan living space flooded with light, kitchen and dining spot perfect for lazy brekkies, and a sitting area spilling onto a balcony where the coast whispered promises of adventure. From that moment, it felt like the place was nudging us to unwind, the waves crashing faintly in the background.

What turned this stay into magic, though, wasn’t the usual tourist traps like the heaving beaches of Porthmeor or the harbour galleries – nah, it was the hidden gems we stumbled on by getting gloriously lost. First morning, fancying a wander, we veered off the main drag down a sneaky footpath behind the town, ending up at a pint-sized cove called Porth Gwidden. Barely a soul there, just turquoise water lapping at our toes and seals popping up like nosy neighbours. We spent hours paddling, no crowds, just us and the gulls.

Next day, post-hot tub bubbles, we took a wrong turn along the coastal path towards Carbis Bay and found this wildflower-strewn headland path leading to an abandoned lookout spot. Proper off-the-beaten-track – wild garlic in the air, views over hidden bays you’d never spot on a map. Picnicked there with pasties from a backstreet bakery we’d sniffed out by accident, feeling like we’d cracked some local secret. Even got lost proper one evening, looping through quiet lanes above Lelant, unearthing a tucked-away tidal salt marsh where the light danced like fairy dust at sunset. No phones, no plans, just that thrill of discovery.

Looking back, I reckon that’s the real gift of a spot like this – it rewards the wanderers. Me, I’m usually a planner to a fault, spreadsheets and all, but getting lost here taught me to loosen up, let serendipity steer. We’d flop back to the townhouse knackered but buzzing, balcony drinks in hand, plotting the next meander. If you’re after St Ives without the scrum, ditch the guidebook, embrace the detours, and let the hidden corners steal your heart. Best holiday detour ever.