I finally made it to Padstow after a bit of a faff on the drive down from Devon – nothing major, just me taking a wrong turn onto a tiny lane that dead-ended at a field full of very unimpressed cows staring me down like I'd gatecrashed their picnic. Chuckling to myself, I reversed out (praying no locals were watching) and got back on track, arriving at the Exclusive 3 Bed Ht just as the late afternoon sun was peeking through the clouds. Nestled right in the heart of Padstow, this cosy holiday cottage felt like a proper Cornish hug from the moment I stepped through the door, with its stone walls, low-beamed ceilings, and that faint sea-salt tang in the air.

First impressions? Bloody brilliant. The place is exclusive alright – think pristine white linens on the three comfy beds, a kitchen kitted out for proper home-cooked feasts (I immediately eyed up the Aga for tomorrow's pasty experiments), and a lounge with squishy sofas begging for a collapse after the road. But it was the garden terrace that sealed it – a little suntrap overlooking the rooftops, perfect for a cuppa while watching gulls wheel about. I dumped my bags, laced up my boots, and headed out for a wander, because what's a Padstow stay without getting the legs moving in that bracing coastal air?

Day one was all about the Camel Trail, that flat(ish) path hugging the estuary. I'd planned a gentle five-mile there-and-back from the cottage doorstep to Rock, eyes peeled for seals and maybe a pasty stop en route. The weather gods were smiling at first – blue skies, a light breeze rustling the gorse, and the trail alive with dog-walkers and cyclists. I ambled past Trevibban Mill, the old granite stones glowing in the sun, feeling like I'd stepped into a postcard. Halfway, I treated myself to a sausage roll from a beachside kiosk (crispy pastry, proper meaty bite – Rick Stein would approve), and sat on a bench watching the tide lap in, boats bobbing like they'd nowhere better to be.

But oh, the British weather – it's got a wicked sense of humour, doesn't it? By the time I looped back towards Padstow, the sky turned from cerulean to battleship grey in about 10 minutes flat. Fat raindrops started plopping, then it was a proper downpour, turning the trail into a muddy slip 'n' slide. I hunkered under my jacket, giggling at the absurdity as I squelched past the harbour, pasty wrappers flying like confetti in the gale. Plans for a sunset cliff walk to Trevone Bay? Scrubbed. Instead, I dashed into a harbourside pub for a pint of Tribute and fish pie that warmed me right through, eavesdropping on fishermen yarns while the rain lashed the windows.

Next morning, I woke to that classic Cornish mist – soft, enveloping, like the world's gone all impressionist painting. Undeterred, I set off for a shorter hike up to the clifftops above Padstow, following the South West Coast Path markers. The views were magic even in the murk: rugged headlands dropping to turquoise coves, wildflowers nodding in the damp. But halfway along, the wind whipped up, fog rolling in thick as clotted cream, and suddenly I couldn't see 10 feet ahead. Heart racing a tad (am I daft for going solo?), I turned tail, navigating by the crash of waves below. Back at the cottage, dripping but chuffed, I reflected over tea in the sunroom – life's too short for fair-weather walks only. That unpredictability? It's what makes these spots sing. Sure, I've got two more days, but this arrival's already etched in – mishaps, mud, and all. Padstow's got me hooked, weather be damned.