Cornwall Dreams Await
This summer, we booked a flight, grabbed our comfiest clothes, and made our way down to Cornwall for two unforgettable weeks in August. Every time I look forward to this trip, but this one felt extra special. Maybe it was the sunshine. Maybe it was the simple pace of life. Or maybe it was the precious time spent with my little boy, George, and with my family. Whatever it was, Cornwall wrapped itself around us like a warm hug. A hug I embraced with the biggest smile.
Tollgate Camp Park: My Cornwall Childhood All Over Again
As soon as we pulled into Tollgate Camp Park, something shifted inside me. I’ve been coming here since I was a child, and there’s a nostalgic magic to it that never fades. The salty breeze, the crunch of the gravel under the tyres, the familiar voices of campers settling in—it all felt like stepping back into the gentlest parts of my past. A past where I felt safe and full of dreams.
Sharing Cornwall with George was truly wonderful. Watching him run across the fields I once played on made me emotional more than once. He lived freely for those two weeks, barefoot and wild, just as every child should be able to at least once in their life.
And chores? For once, nobody moaned. We all mucked in—washing up, hanging towels, tidying tents. Somehow, when the sun is shining, and the sea is calling, even chores feel lighter & more fun. Even pirates have to clean the decks.
Bare Feet, Sea Air, and Buddy the Star of the Show
My younger sister brought her sausage dog, Buddy, and he stole the show from the second he arrived. Buddy decided, quite firmly, that the tent was his, that the cold was unacceptable, and that every stranger was a potential threat to his kingdom. He made us laugh every single day.
The children doted on him. He was tucked into blankets, carried around like royalty, and included in every game. Evenings were spent snuggled around the fire, toasting s’mores with Buddy asleep across someone’s lap. Cornwall nights were chilly, but with a hot chocolate or a tipple in hand and the stars scattered across the sky, nothing felt uncomfortable. In fact, it felt perfect.
Perranporth Beach: Where the Cornwall Days Drifted By
Most days, we headed straight for Perranporth Beach, our second home. The sand was warm, the sea sparkling, and the children could have stayed in the water forever. I taught them how to bodyboard, something that filled me with joy. By the end of the holiday, they were spotting a good rip curl like seasoned pros. Watching their confidence grow was magical.
After the beach, we’d return to Tollgate sun-kissed and exhausted in the best possible way. Hot showers, brushed-cotton pyjamas, and all of us piled into the children’s tent for a nightly chat. We talked about happy things, silly things, and sometimes serious things to a six and eight-year-old. Something about the quietness of Cornwall and camping made the children open up. Fears shrank. Hearts softened. Bonds deepened.
Those are the moments I’ll carry forever. Time cherishing those moments meant everything.
St Ives: The Place That Steals My Breath Every Time
One morning, we drove to St Ives, and as always, I insisted on parking high on the hill overlooking the harbour. That first view—silver-blue water, white boats, rooftops tumbling towards the shore—never fails to take my breath away.
We zig-zagged down through the town, peeking into tiny windows of coastal cottages as we passed. George played on the beach for what felt like hours and begged for every bit of tat in every gift shop. I found myself torn between wanting to treat him and remembering he didn’t need it all. But sweets from the traditional sweet shop? That was non-negotiable.
While George played with a new friend he’d made, my sister Georgia and my brother-in-law Robert treated ourselves to a cocktail at Silco. We ordered a Love Lane cocktail, and the little touches in that venue—soft colours, charming details—made me smile. Silco is a must-visit in my opinion.
We drove home singing Sabrina Carpenter at the top of our lungs. A small thing, but the kind of memory that sticks.
Portreath: A Surprise, a Cliff Walk, and an Unexpected Discovery
On our first full day, we visited Portreath, a beach I can’t ever remember going to. We climbed a cliffside, and the children discovered what they thought looked like a tiny jail. They played prisoners and giggled their way around it. But on the way back down, we read the sign and realised it was an old morgue, used for victims washed ashore, called Dead Man’s hut. A sombre piece of history, but the children remained blissfully unaware and continued playing. Sometimes innocence is a blessing.
Simple Evenings, Big Laughter
One evening, the TV aerial my dad brought along actually worked, and we watched a documentary together. But after that, the TV refused to cooperate, so instead I began reading stories to the children each night. By the end of the holiday, they were roaring with laughter at my terrible accents. The simplest things often become the most treasured.
I realised something important this holiday:
You don’t need a TV. You don’t need money. You don’t need fancy days out.
When the sun is shining and the sea is near, life provides entertainment of its own. And each other.
Fish and chips on the beach with a breathtaking view easily beat the dull walls of any posh restaurant.
Prideaux Place and Padstow: A Day I Won’t Forget
Another day, we visited Prideaux Place, a home I loved visiting as a child. I hadn’t been in 20 years. The private tour was fascinating; the house, with its history spanning 14 generations, felt like stepping into another time.
Later, we headed into Padstow and had a full afternoon sauntering along the harbour, had some homemade ice cream, and lost George.
While we were rolling up the crab lines, he panicked that the Padstow toy shop was closing and bolted. One moment he was there, the next he wasn’t. My heart dropped. Instead of screaming, we split up and searched. I hurried to the toy shop, but he wasn’t there. The shopkeeper immediately sent out a missing child code to all nearby shops. My phone rang—my mum had found him.
He looked bewildered, not understanding the worry he caused. My heart only stopped pounding about an hour or so later.
We ate fish and chips by the harbour and promised ourselves that next year we’d finally book a table as a family at Rick Stein’s Padstow restaurant. The menu had us enticed.
A Sauna On A Beach Near Newquay
Just outside Newquay, my sister surprised me with something unforgettable: an outdoor spa perched right on the beach. The sauna was a beautiful wooden gypsy hut, warmed to a deep, soothing heat, with one entire wall given over to a vast window. From inside, wrapped in that cocoon of warmth, we watched the Atlantic in full voice—roller waves crashing and reforming under a steel-grey sky. It was a particularly stormy day, the kind that makes Cornwall feel raw and alive, and somehow that only made the moment more perfect.
When the heat became deliciously overwhelming, we did what felt both mad and necessary and ran for the sea. The water was wild, waves bashing and pulling, and we plunged in laughing and breathless. I’ll admit, once was enough for me, but Georgia went back out again, fearless and grinning, while I watched with pride. On the drive home, we stopped at a small bakery, the kind that smells like comfort and butter, and the food was so good I returned later in the holiday—still glowing from salt, heat, and courage.
Falmouth And St Mawes
One of our most treasured family traditions is the gentle trip across the estuary from Falmouth to St Mawes. It’s the perfect outing even for those without sea legs, a calm crossing that feels more like a glide than a voyage. Even Buddy survived it—though he started as a bag of nerves, he soon settled as the boat moved steadily on. The sun came out just in time, and we soaked up the warmth, that unmistakable Cornish light making everything feel slower and softer. Fuelled by a proper lunch of fish and chips in Falmouth, we boarded the boat full and content, ready for a day that never fails to charm.
St Mawes, as always, didn’t disappoint. The children made a beeline for the toy shops, while the grown-ups soaked in the familiar beauty of the place. There may have been a brief stand-off outside The Watch House—George firmly insisting he needed something immediately, and me firmly insisting he could wait—but it all passed, as these things do. Wandering the cobbled back streets, admiring the pretty houses and hidden corners, the tension melted away. Before we knew it, we were back on the boat to Falmouth and George with sweets in tow, quietly taking in the deep blues of the sky and sea, already feeling grateful for another simple, perfect Cornish day.
Friendships, Fields, and That Enid Blyton Feeling
Back at camp, the children raced each evening across the fields with “jogger lady,” befriended other campers, and spent hours on the playground. There’s something wonderfully Enid Blyton about camping friendships—instant, wholesome, full of adventure.
The Coast That Heals
Each visit to Perranporth, I made the children walk the old coast path I took as a child. Over the golf course, down Fox Hill and golf lane—our own little names for each section. The sea slowly reveals itself in the distance. Pure magic.
One day, on our walk back, the heavens opened and drenched us. The hot showers and soft pyjamas that followed felt like heaven.
Cornwall has always healed my soul. This year, it felt like medicine. I forgot my worries. and remembered how to laugh. I made memories that will live forever in my heart.
Watching George run barefoot, chase bunny rabbits, examine the fat caterpillars grow each day, and talk confidently to all our camping neighbours on the campsite as to what they have done that day reminded me of what childhood should be. Free, wild, to explore, and wonder.
He lived more freely in those two weeks than I’ve ever seen him live before.
And yes—we’re already counting down the days until next summer. The bell tent and Highlander BLK stove are on their way for this summer from Sussex Bell Tents, and we may do a trial run or two before our August Cornwall trip, to The Lakes in Cumbria. George watched the original Swallows & Amazons 1974 film. And is eager to go to Wild Cat Island. So I am naturally collecting colour-matching enamelware to prepare for our next adventure. Making sure I can create some Skye McAlpine recipes on the wood burning stove and some wood fired pizza’s from scratch.
But I must put on my list George’s pirate flag and pole. I promised we would get one and pretend to be pirates.
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