I’ll never forget the drive to Blakeney – or rather, the comedy of errors that got us there. We’d set off from Ross-on-Wye early, buzzing with that holiday anticipation, windows down and Radio 2 on, dreaming of lazy days by the Wye. But halfway along the narrow lanes, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly, directing us down what felt like a goat track. We ended up in a muddy farmyard, sheep staring at us like we’d gatecrashed their party. A quick U-turn and a shared giggle later, we were back on track, arriving at our stylish first-floor apartment in a listed building right in the village heart. Stepping inside, I was smitten – the sitting room with its blue furnishings and feature wall felt like a hug, perfect for kicking off shoes and brewing a coffee on the balcony, gazing out over the Wye Valley landscape. The kitchen-diner was a dream too, light and airy, kitted out just right for knocking up a romantic supper for two.

From that moment, our getaway turned into a glorious wander, all about stumbling on Blakeney’s hidden gems by happy accident. We had no grand itinerary – just a vague plan to amble – and boy, did getting lost pay off. First afternoon, we veered off the main path behind the church, chasing a glimpse of the river through the trees. What we found was a tucked-away picnic spot by a burbling brook, wildflowers everywhere and not a soul in sight. We sprawled out with cheese sarnies, watching kingfishers dart about. Pure magic, the sort of place guidebooks miss.

Next day, a wrong turn down a hedgerow-lined lane led us to an old smuggling trail – or so the faded sign said. It snaked up to a forgotten viewpoint overlooking the valley, where the Wye twisted like a silver ribbon below. We picnicked there again, wind in our hair, feeling like we’d uncovered a secret. Blakeney’s got this knack for rewarding the aimless; one evening, looping back from a riverside stroll, we tripped over a tiny orchard tucked behind cottages. Gnarled apple trees heavy with fruit, and a honesty box for whatever you picked. We grabbed a bag, laughing at our windfall, and turned them into crumble back at the flat that night.

Of course, not every detour was seamless. One hike had us proper lost in the woods near the quay, phones on zero signal, me panicking we’d be bear food (daft, I know – it’s Herefordshire, not the Rockies). But emerging onto a hidden meadow with views to Symonds Yat Rock was worth the sweat. It made me reflect, sat there on the balcony later with a GandT, how life’s best bits often come from ditching the map. We’re so wired for plans, aren’t we? Yet here, in this cosy bolthole, embracing the meander unlocked Blakeney’s quiet charms – those off-the-beaten-path nooks that feel like they’re yours alone.

By week’s end, we’d mapped our own mental guide to the village’s secrets, from the shady glade perfect for reading to the wee footbridge over a lily-pad pond we’d never have sought out. If you’re after romance without the crowds, get yourself lost here. It’s the best way to find what matters.