I finally made it to Porthleven after a bit of a faff on the drive down from Truro – nothing major, just me taking a wrong turn onto some narrow lane that dead-ended at a field full of suspiciously curious cows. One gave me a long stare as if to say, "Mate, you're lost already?" Typical me, but it set the tone for a weekend of happy wandering at Una, this cracking little lodge tucked away on the edge of the village. Pulled up just as the sun dipped low over Mount's Bay, the sea mist rolling in like a soft welcome rug.

First impressions? Blimey, Una's a proper gem. It's one of those unassuming spots you stumble upon – not blaring its virtues from the rooftops, but whispering them once you're there. Compact and cosy, with a veranda that looks straight out over the cliffs, it felt like stepping into someone’s secret hideaway. I dumped my bags, cracked open a tin of Cornish pasty (grabbed from the village bakery on the way), and just soaked it in. The place is all about that raw, windswept charm – no fancy fripperies, just the essentials done right: a wood-burner for chilly evenings, a telly for rainy afternoons (though who needs it with views like that?), and a kitchenette stocked with everything for a brew-up. From the off, it screamed "get out and explore," but in that low-key Porthleven way, where the best bits aren't signposted.

Day one proper started with me deciding to "just pop out for a walk." Famous last words. Instead of the obvious harbour path, I veered left at the harbour wall – away from the surfers and the chippy queues – and found myself on a scrappy little coastal trail that isn't on any map I'd seen. Hidden gem numero uno: a pebbly cove called Porthleven Cove, but the secret bit, the one you only spot if you're not paying attention to the main drags. Tucked behind some gorse bushes, it was deserted save for a pair of oystercatchers piping away. I pottered about, skimmed stones till my arm ached, and laughed at myself for nearly twisting an ankle on the slippery rocks. Proper daft, but that's the joy of it – no crowds, just the crash of waves and that salty tang in the air.

Wandering back, stomach rumbling, I got properly lost in the village's back lanes. Porthleven's got that labyrinth feel, all granite cottages huddling together like they're sharing gossip. Stumbled on the Wickety Warehouse by accident – not the touristy bit everyone raves about, but a tucked-away corner with crates of local cider and jars of pickled samphire that some fisherman’s wife must’ve knocked up. Nabbed a bottle of Rattler and a pasty from Philps, the no-nonsense bakery that's been there donkey's years. Sat on Una's veranda munching, watching fishing boats bob in the harbour. First evening in, and already I'd clocked that this place rewards the aimless ramble.

By day two, I was hooked on the thrill of the unplanned. A wrong turn up towards the cliffs led to Rinsey – not the car park viewpoint, oh no, but a faint path snaking down to a wild bit of beach where the old engine house ruins loom like ancient sentinels. No one else around; just me, the seals barking offshore, and a thermos of tea from Una's kettle. Light drizzle kicked in, but sheltered by the rocks, it was magic. Chuckled to myself thinking how I'd planned a "proper itinerary" before leaving, only to bin it on arrival. That's the self-reflection bit: life's too short for sat-nav obedience. Getting lost here isn't a mishap; it's the point. Unearthed a smuggling cave rumoured in local whispers (or was that my imagination?), poked about tide pools teeming with blennies, and felt that rare buzz of discovery.

Evening two, back at Una, I fired up the burner and scoffed seafood from the harbourside hut I'd found by chance – fat prawns and fresh mackerel, nothing posh, just honest. Gazing out as the lighthouse beam swept the bay, I realised this three-day jaunt had already delivered more than any guidebook tick-list. Porthleven, and Una especially, is for the wanderers who embrace the detour. If you're after hidden coves, secret lanes, and that quiet thrill of the unplanned, pack your wellies and get yourself down here. You won't regret it – unless you end up mooed at by cows like I did.