I’ll never forget the drive down to St Ives – sat nav on, windows down, and a playlist of indie tunes blasting. We’d just passed Hayle when disaster struck: a wrong turn onto some tiny lane that had us wedged between two hedges, engine idling while I frantically reversed like a learner driver. “This is it, we’re stuck forever,” I joked to the missus, but 10 minutes later we were free, laughing it off with pasties from a roadside van. By the time we crested the hill overlooking Porthmeor Beach, the anticipation was buzzing – those golden sands and crashing waves below had us grinning like kids.

Pulling up to our detached holiday home, the first impressions were spot on. Perched right over the beach, it had this serene coastal vibe that hit you straight away. Inside, the open-plan living room was a dream – loads of comfy seating for sprawling out with Netflix, flowing into a slick kitchen where I could whip up a proper fry-up without feeling cramped. The dining bit screamed family gatherings, especially with those massive bi-fold doors swinging out to a deck on summer evenings. We cracked open some fizz on the deck that first night, feet up in the hot tub as the sun dipped over the sea, jets easing the drive’s kinks. Upstairs, the bedrooms were cracking – our super-king master with ensuite was pure bliss after a day out.

But the real magic? Getting properly lost. St Ives is tourist central, but we stumbled on hidden gems by ditching the map. Day two, we wandered off the main drag down a skinny path from Porthmeor, ending up at a secluded cove called Portheras – no crowds, just seals barking on the rocks and us paddling in rock pools, picnic in hand. Felt like we’d nicked a secret from the locals. Next morning, aiming for a quick beach hop, we took a “shortcut” that looped us into the back lanes behind Carbis Bay. Pure fluke led to this tucked-away café in a converted chapel, knocking out the best crab sandwiches I’ve had – owner chatting about his fishing days, no menus, just fresh catches.

One afternoon, proper disoriented after a clifftop amble, we found ourselves at an old smugglers’ path snaking down to a pebbly beach near Zennor Head – wait, no, scratch that, it was just a wild corner of the coastal path above Bamford Sparkes Cove or summat like that, all gorse and gulls. We picnicked there, waves thundering below, and I had this quiet moment thinking, “Blimey, when did life get so hectic back home? This is what it’s about – no plans, just turning left instead of right.” Light bulb moment, innit? Evenings back at the house, we’d debrief over barbecues on the deck, hot tub bubbling, plotting the next “lost” adventure.

By week’s end, we’d clocked more off-piste spots than the guidebooks mention – a hidden tidal pool for wild swims, a cliffside bench with views that stopped you in your tracks. St Ives from the beaten track? Absolute gold. If you’re heading that way, pack comfy shoes, embrace the wrong turns, and let the place unravel itself. We’re already plotting a return.