I’ll never forget the drive down to St Ives for my three-day jaunt at Worvas Counthouse – a proper Cornish cottage tucked away in the heart of it all. We’d set off from up-country with the sat-nav primed, but about 20 miles out, I managed to spill my entire flask of builder’s tea right across the passenger footwell. Cue much swearing, soggy socks for my mate, and a frantic stop at a services for paper towels. “Classic me,” I chuckled, mopping up the mess. “Can’t even make it to Cornwall without a brew-up disaster.” Still, by the time we wound down the narrow lanes into St Ives, the sun was glinting off the sea, and all was forgiven.

Pulling up to Worvas Counthouse felt like stumbling on a secret. It’s one of those old stone beauties, all wonky beams and flower-filled window boxes, hidden just off the main drag near the harbour. No neon signs or coach parties here – just the sort of place you find by happy accident, turning left instead of right. We unloaded our bags through the low doorway, and blimey, the first impressions hit like a warm pasty. Cosy lounge with a wood burner begging for a fire, a kitchen that screamed lazy breakfasts of smoked kippers, and upstairs, bedrooms with views peeking over rooftops to the Atlantic. It’s got that lived-in charm, like your nan’s house but with sea air and no doilies.

Keen to shake off the road, we decided to wander rather than follow the usual Porthmeor Beach pilgrim route. St Ives is brilliant for that – get lost in the back lanes, and you unearth proper hidden gems. Five minutes from the cottage, veering off down a snicket we’d have missed on purpose, we found ourselves at a tiny cove called Porthgwidden. Not the blockbuster sands, mind, but a sheltered slip of pale sand hemmed by jagged rocks, where locals paddle and a lone ice cream van tinkles away. We flopped on the pebbles, feet in the chill waves, laughing as a cheeky gull nicked my crisps. “See?” I said to my mate. “Tea-spilling aside, this is why we don’t use maps.”

As the afternoon stretched, we kept ambling, letting whimsy lead. Up a flight of slippery granite steps – the sort that make you question your trainers – we emerged at a clifftop path overlooking Carbis Bay. But sod the main trail; we ducked onto a lesser-known sheep-nibbled track that hugged the edge, wildflowers brushing our knees. There, bang on cue, was this accidental find: a forgotten smugglers’ lookout, just a weathered stone bench etched with initials from who-knows-when. Sat there with a thermos of fresh tea (lesson learned, no flasks), gazing at seals bobbing in the swell below. No crowds, no selfies – pure, unscripted bliss. It got me reflecting a bit, you know? In the rush of life, we’re always chasing the Instagram spots, but it’s these off-the-beaten detours that recharge the soul. Me, spilling tea and all, needed that nudge.

Evening drew us back towards Worvas, but not before another serendipitous loop. Stumbling past a hedge-lined alley near the Leach Pottery (didn’t go in, but the vibe was spot on), we hit a pocket park I’d never heard of – barely a dot on any app. Just benches under tamarisk trees, the distant crash of waves, and a couple of old boys playing dominoes. We joined for a chinwag about the best pasty spots (turns out, it’s the hole-in-the-wall by the lifeboat station). Light was fading gold over the rooftops as we finally traipsed home, fish and chips in hand from a no-frills takeaway we’d sniffed out by the aroma.

First day at Worvas Counthouse, and already it’s etched in – mishaps, meanders, and those magical, accidental corners of St Ives that make you glad you took the wrong turn. Can’t wait for day two’s wanderings.