I finally made it to Porthleven after a bit of a faff on the drive down from Helston – nothing major, just a rogue seagull dive-bombing my windscreen with what looked suspiciously like a chip, forcing me to pull over and give the old girl a quick wipe-down. Laughable really, but it set the tone for a proper Cornish weekend at Wheal Prosper Lodge, that cosy little gem tucked away in the village, all stone walls and sea views that make you forget the mainland grind.

Pulled up mid-afternoon on the first day, the lodge welcoming me with its classic slate roof and those big windows framing the harbour like a postcard. First impressions? Blimey, it's even better than the snaps – a snug two-bedroom affair with a wood burner begging for a fire later, and a patio that screams "morning coffee with a side of waves." I dumped my bags, laced up my boots, and headed out for a wander, figuring I'd ease into things with a stroll around Porthleven's inner harbour. The place was buzzing but chilled, fishing boats bobbing gently, the scent of salt and fresh pasties wafting from the quayside bakery. Weather was holding – a crisp autumn blue sky – so I nipped into the Harbour Café for a flat white, proper strong stuff to fuel the legs.

By the time I'd polished off a scone the size of my fist, clouds were gathering like they do in these parts. No bother, I thought; Porthleven's got some cracking walks on its doorstep. Set off along the South West Coast Path towards Loe Bar, that shingle spit where the lake meets the sea. It's only a couple of miles out, dead flat to start, then proper undulating clifftop stuff with views that knock you sideways – jagged rocks plunging into the Atlantic, gulls wheeling overhead. Felt like I'd stepped into a BBC nature doc, minus David Attenborough's whisper. The wind picked up, whipping my hood about, but it was invigorating, you know? Made me chuckle thinking how I'd packed factor 50 sunscreen and forgotten the waterproofs. Classic me.

Back at the lodge by dusk, cheeks ruddy from the brine, I cracked open a tin of sardines from the local shop and watched the sun dip behind the harbour lights. First night in, and already smitten – the place has this unpretentious charm, like it's been waiting for you specifically. Next morning, woke to rain lashing the windows, proper horizontal stuff courtesy of an Atlantic low. Plans for a longer hike to Porthleven Sands? Scrubbed. Instead, suited up in my cagoule and improvised with a loop around the village: down to the breakwater, dodging waves that crashed like applause, then up through the back lanes past those wonky fishermen's cottages. The weather turned the walk into an adventure – puddles you could swim in, sudden sunbreaks turning everything golden, then back to drizzle. Bloody British weather, eh? Keeps you on your toes, forces you to appreciate the micro-moments, like spotting a seal popping up by the harbour wall, all glossy and curious.

By day two's end, after another soggy circuit that looped me past the lifeboat station (heroes, those lot), I was knackered but buzzing. Collapsed on the lodge sofa with a cuppa, staring out at the stormy sea, and had one of those quiet reflects: life's too short for desk-bound drudgery when spots like this exist. The rain eased just enough for a final evening amble to watch the surfers at the beach, their wetsuits gleaming under floodlights. Wheal Prosper Lodge isn't flash – no pool or spa malarkey – but that's its magic. It's a base for these weather-whipped walks that leave you windswept, wiser, and wondering why you don't do this more often. Three days in Porthleven? Pure tonic. Can't wait to brave the next forecast.