I’ll never forget the drive down to Holly Lodge near Bodmin in Cornwall – a proper faff from the start. I’d set off from Bristol full of beans, Spotify blasting some indie tunes, only for the sat-nav to chuck a wobbly just past Launceston. Turned out I’d bunged in the postcode wrong (classic me, fingers like sausages on a tiny screen), and suddenly I’m rerouted down a single-track lane that felt more like a goat path. Scraped the wing mirror on a hedge – nothing major, just a daft reminder that Cornwall’s roads don’t mess about. Twenty minutes later, I’m trundling up the drive to this inviting little cottage, heart lifting as the granite walls and flower baskets came into view. It was late afternoon on day one, and the place looked like it’d been plucked from a postcard: slate roof, wood-burner peeking through the window, and that quintessential Cornish charm without a whiff of pretension.

First impressions? Blimey, it was love at first sight. I dumped my bags in the cosy lounge – all plush sofas and a telly begging for a Netflix binge – and cracked open the welcome pack. Local cider, pasties from a Bodmin bakery, and a cheeky note from the owners about nearby walks. Perfect. The weather was holding a cheeky grin: blue skies with a fresh breeze off Bodmin Moor, so I laced up my boots for an impromptu hike straight away. Holly Lodge sits in a cracking spot, just a stone’s throw from those wild moorland paths. I headed out along the lane towards Cardinham Woods, barely a mile off, lungs filling with that crisp, piney air. It was one of those walks where you feel properly alive – gorse buzzing with bees, ponies eyeing you suspiciously from the heather. Laughed out loud when a cheeky one trotted over, clearly hoping for a polo from my pocket. Spoiler: I’m a soft touch, so it got one.

Day two dawned with that classic British promise: sun peeking through the curtains like it meant business. I wolfed down porridge in the sunlit kitchen – the kind with a window seat begging for a brew and a book – then plotted a proper ramble. The plan was the full Bodmin Moor loop, about four miles of undulating tracks past ancient standing stones. Weather app said clear skies, so off I went, striding out with a rucksack of sarnies and optimism. First hour was bliss: skylarks trilling overhead, the moor stretching out like an emerald sea, dotted with tors that screamed for a scramble. I paused at Jamaica Inn (well, the shadow of it, just within my wandering range), channelling a bit of Daphne du Maurier while munching a cheese and pickle butty. Pure magic.

Then, Cornwall weather does its thing. Out of nowhere, the clouds rolled in like uninvited guests – fat, grey ones straight from the Atlantic. Mist swallowed the horizon, turning the path into a slippery adventure. I’d packed a waterproof, thank goodness, but the wind whipped it into a sail, and hail started pinging off my hood like tiny bullets. Proper biblical, it was. Plans? Scrubbed. Instead of summiting the tor, I pivoted to a woodland detour back towards Holly Lodge, splashing through streams that hadn’t been there an hour ago. Laughing at myself the whole way – here I was, sodden and grinning like an eejit, remembering that time in the Lakes when I ignored the forecast and ended up looking like a drowned rat. Why do I never learn?

By evening, I was back in the lodge, towelling off by the wood-burner, kettle on for a proper cuppa. The rain lashed the windows, but inside it was toasty perfection – stew simmering, feet up. That mishap of a drive, the hailstorm hike, it all made the first impressions unforgettable. Made me reflect, too: we’re so quick to chase perfect sun, but it’s these changeable Cornish days, forcing you to adapt and chuckle at the chaos, that stick with you. Can’t wait to go back for more.