I’ll never forget the drive to Tiggy Winkle, that tasteful little cottage in St Merryn just outside Padstow. It was a balmy Friday in late spring, and I’d set off from the motorway with high hopes for a three-day escape, windows down, Radio 2 blasting some cracking indie tunes. Naturally, being me, I took a wrong turn somewhere near the A39 – nothing dramatic, just a daft five-minute detour down a narrow lane that dead-ended at a muddy farm gate. I laughed it off as I reversed out, splattering the hedges with a bit of grit. “Welcome to Cornwall,” I muttered, finally spotting the sign for St Merryn and Tiggy Winkle nestled in its quiet corner.

Pulling up to the cottage, I was chuffed to bits. It’s one of those proper hidden gems – not slap bang in Padstow’s tourist scrum, but a cheeky five-minute drive away, tucked into a peaceful nook with Trevone Bay practically on the doorstep. The owner had left a basket of fresh scones, clotted cream, and strawberry jam on the kitchen table – classic Cornish welcome that had me grinning like a kid. The place itself is spot-on: cosy beams, a wood-burner begging for a future evening chill, and a south-facing garden that catches the sun like it’s got a personal vendetta against shade. First impressions? Pure bliss. I dumped my bags, brewed a cuppa, and flopped into the squishy armchair by the window, gazing out at the gorse-covered hills. No traffic hum, just the distant bleat of sheep and the sea’s gentle whoosh.

But the real magic kicked in when I decided to wander, phone shoved in my pocket, no map app in sight. Padstow’s got its famous spots – Rick Stein’s empire and the harbour bustle – but I was after the off-the-beaten-path stuff, the accidental finds that make a holiday sing. I struck gold straight away, stumbling down a barely marked footpath from the cottage that led me to a secluded stretch of Trevone Bay. It’s not the main beach drag; this was a wee cove, hidden by jagged cliffs, where the sand sparkled like crushed glass and rock pools teemed with winking anemones. I paddled in the shallows, giggling as a cheeky wave soaked my trainers – who packs wellies for a first-afternoon explore? Sat there on a boulder, munching a pasty I’d grabbed from a no-frills bakery in St Merryn (proper job, flaky pastry and all), I felt that rare holiday hum: utterly unplugged.

Wandering further, I got properly lost in the best way, veering off onto a clifftop trail towards Harlyn Bay. No crowds here – just gulls wheeling overhead and wildflowers nodding in the breeze. I chanced upon an old smugglers’ cove, a secret inlet you’d miss unless you were faffing about like me. The water was that electric turquoise, lapping at barnacle-crusted rocks, and I spent ages poking about, unearthing tiny fossils in the shale. Light was fading, turning everything golden, and I plonked down for a breather, reflecting on how daft it is that we rush through life with sat-navs. Here, getting lost had unearthed these pockets of Cornwall most folk zoom past – the raw, unpolished edges that feel like they’re just for you.

Back at Tiggy Winkle by dusk, I rustled up fish and chips from the local chippy (crisp batter, mushy peas perfection), scoffing them in the garden as the sun dipped. First day in, and already this cottage felt like a portal to Padstow’s quieter soul. Those hidden coves and accidental trails? They’ve got me hooked – proof that the best holidays are the ones where you let the lanes lead you astray.