I’ll never forget the drive to Blakeney – one of those classic Norfolk jaunts where you think you’ve got it all planned, then the sat-nav decides to have a midlife crisis. We were chugging along the A149 from Cromer, windows down, Radio 2 humming away, when it suddenly rerouted us down a narrow lane that felt more like a sheep track. Cue a tense five minutes reversing around a blind corner with a tractor bearing down on us. Heart in mouth, but we laughed it off – classic me, always picking the scenic route by accident.

By the time we rolled up, the sun was dipping low, casting this golden glow over the saltmarshes, and I could already feel that holiday buzz kicking in. The cottage was just what we’d hoped: a cosy hideaway decked out in those classic Laura Ashley fabrics, all soft florals and inviting armchairs. Perched with jaw-dropping views straight across the marshes to the sea, and only a short stroll from Blakeney’s quay. We dumped the bags, cracked open a bottle of wine on the patio, and just soaked it in. First impressions? Spot on – comfortable, characterful, and perfect for pottering about North Norfolk. There’s even secure bike storage if you’re into two wheels, which we weren’t, but it felt reassuringly thoughtful.

The real magic, though, kicked off the next morning when we decided to “wander” rather than follow the guidebook. Blakeney’s got its famous quay and seal trips, sure, but we veered off the beaten path straight away, following a footpath sign that looked half-hidden by brambles. That’s how we stumbled on this secret stretch of the coastal path – no crowds, just endless skies, squawking curlews, and mudflats glittering like a million shattered mirrors at low tide. We got properly lost for a bit, phones on airplane mode (deliberately, for once), twisting through reed beds that rustled like they were whispering secrets. Emerged at this tiny, unnamed creek where a lone heron stood fishing – pure poetry, and not a soul in sight.

Later that day, another accidental gem: while “exploring” behind the village, we ducked into a winding lane off the High Street and found The Blakeney Deli. Tucked away, easy to miss unless you’re not looking where you’re going. Picked up local crab pâté, artisan cheeses from Cley (practically next door), and fresh sourdough that was still warm. Picnicked on a random bench overlooking the harbour channel, watching boats bob and seals poke their heads up like nosy neighbours. Who needs Michelin stars when you’ve got that?

We kept the theme going – getting lost became our holiday mantra. One afternoon, a wrong turn on the Morston Road led to this hidden boardwalk through the marshes, alive with samphire and sea lavender. Sat there as the mist rolled in, feeling tiny and brilliantly alive. And on our last evening, a meandering cycle (borrowing village bikes) took us to a secluded spot by the Point, where the sun set in a blaze of pink over the North Sea. No maps, no plans – just serendipity.

Looking back, that little sat-nav fiasco was the best thing that happened. It reminded me how the real treasures are the ones you trip over when you stop trying so hard. Blakeney’s full of them if you let yourself get lost. Can’t wait to go back and lose myself all over again.