I’ll never forget the drive down to 4 Southern Place in Liskeard, Cornwall – a proper faff from the motorway, but worth every twisty mile. We’d piled into the car that Friday morning, me navigating with my phone while my mate Dave drove, insisting he knew the back roads better than Google. Spoiler: he didn’t. Somewhere near Bodmin, I’d directed him down what looked like a promising shortcut, only for us to end up behind a tractor hauling silage at 5mph. The stench was biblical – like a farmyard explosion – and we were stuck for half an hour, windows down because the air con had packed up. Dave’s muttering about “bloody Cornish tractors” had us in stitches, though. Classic holiday start, innit?

By late afternoon, we finally rolled up to 4 Southern Place, this cosy little terraced cottage tucked away on a quiet street in Liskeard. First impressions? Pure charm. The whitewashed exterior with its slate roof screamed traditional Cornwall, and the front garden was bursting with hydrangeas still holding on from summer. We let ourselves in with the key safe code – dead easy – and stepped into a lounge that felt like a warm hug. Beamed ceiling, wood-burner begging for a log or two, and mismatched armchairs that looked like they’d hosted a thousand cups of tea. Kitchen was compact but brilliant, with everything you’d need for a fry-up, and upstairs, the bedrooms were snug as a bug, views peeking out over rooftops towards the moors. It wasn’t fancy, but it was homey, the sort of place that whispers “relax” the second you drop your bags.

We hadn’t planned much – that’s the joy of Cornwall, isn’t it? – so after dumping our stuff, we fancied a wander. No tourist traps for us; we just followed our noses down the back lanes from the cottage, proper off-the-beaten-track stuff. Five minutes in, we stumbled on this hidden gem: a tiny community orchard behind some allotments, overgrown with apple trees heavy with windfalls. No signs, no fences – just a weathered gate we nudged open. The air was thick with that sharp, cider-y scent, and we helped ourselves to a few bramleys, giggling like kids as we chomped into the tart buggers. “This is what holidays are for,” I said to Dave, juice dribbling down my chin. Pure accidental magic.

Emboldened, we kept going, veering off the pavement onto a footpath that snaked uphill through brambly hedges. Lost? Maybe a tad, but who cares? That’s when we found the real jewel: an old quarry path leading to a secluded viewpoint over the Inney Valley. Not on any map I’d seen – we later reckoned it was part of some forgotten miners’ trail. The sun was dipping low, painting the tors gold, and there wasn’t a soul in sight. We sat on a mossy rock, legs dangling, supping tea from a thermos we’d nabbed from the cottage. Sheep bleated faintly below, and a buzzard wheeled overhead. It was one of those moments that stops you in your tracks – no Instagram crowds, just us and the wild edge of Cornwall.

Wandering back as dusk fell, we detoured through Darite, a blink-and-you-miss-it village half a mile up. Spotted a weathered chapel with a graveyard overgrown with ferns – eerie but beautiful. Pushed open the creaky door to find it empty save for dusty pews and sunlight slanting through stained glass. Felt like stepping into a time capsule. Chuckled at the sign warning about “falling masonry” – health and safety gone mad, or wisely cautious?

That first evening, back at the cottage, we cracked open pasties from the local bakery (cheesy, mind – none of your tourist rubbish) and lit the wood-burner. Reflecting on it now, as I sit here with a cuppa, I realise how getting lost unlocked the best bits. In the rush of life, we forget to wander without a plan. 4 Southern Place was the perfect base – unpretentious, right in the heart of these secret lanes. Can’t wait to go back and lose myself all over again.