I’ll never forget the drive to Blakeney that crisp autumn morning – sat-nav on, thermos of tea in the cupholder, and me feeling all smug about beating the weekend rush. Then, halfway through some twisty bit of the A149, disaster struck: a rogue pheasant decided to play chicken with the car right in front of us. I swerved, heart in my mouth, and ended up in a layby with the wing mirror dangling like a wonky earring. A quick bit of gaffer tape from the boot sorted it (cheers, husband’s emergency kit), but it set the tone for the trip – a bit of unplanned adventure before we’d even arrived.

Pulling up to our Norfolk maisonette, I was buzzing with that proper holiday anticipation, wondering if it’d live up to the photos. Blimey, it exceeded them. This pretty-as-a-picture spot had us grinning from ear to ear with its stunning panoramic view of the marshes and sea straight from the master bedroom – proper jaw-dropper at sunrise. Finished to a cracking high standard, it came with its own private garden and parking for two cars, and the centre of Blakeney was just a short stroll away. We dumped the bags, cracked open a bottle of fizz, and felt instantly at home.

What turned this stay into pure magic, though, wasn’t the usual tourist trail – nah, it was all about stumbling on hidden gems by pure accident. First afternoon, we fancied a wander and somehow got lost down a barely-there footpath off the high street. Ended up at this secret little creek where seals were bobbing about like cheeky locals, closer than I’ve ever seen without a boat trip. No crowds, just us, the squawk of curlews, and that salty marsh air. I laughed at myself – me, who can’t navigate a roundabout without stress, accidentally finding seal-spotting nirvana.

Next day, aiming for the quay, we veered off down a winding lane that didn’t look promising. Mistake? Nope. It spat us out at a tucked-away wildflower meadow fringed by dunes, perfect for a picnic. We sprawled out with cheese sarnies, watching avocets pick about – those elegant birds you read about but rarely clock up close. Pure fluke, and miles better than any guided walk.

The real highlight came on our last evening. Chasing a shortcut back from the village shop, we lost ourselves proper in the maze of salt marshes behind the harbour. No map, no signal, just following a hunch along dyke paths. Stumbled on this abandoned windmill ruin, half-swallowed by reeds, with the sun dipping low over the sea. Sat there in the quiet, sipping gin from tin cups, and I had one of those gentle moments – reflecting on how getting lost like that reminds you life’s best bits aren’t signposted. Back at the maisonette, that bedroom view sealed it: marshes glowing pink, seals barking faintly in the distance.

Blakeney’s got that pull – stay in a gem like this, let yourself get properly disoriented, and you’ll unearth treasures you’d never plan. We left with muddy boots, full hearts, and a promise to return for more happy accidents.