I’ll never forget the sheer panic that set in when my sat-nav decided to chuck a wobbly halfway through our drive to that splendid holiday cottage in Norfolk. We’d booked this cosy little gem near the North Norfolk coast – think whitewashed walls, a thatched roof, and a garden spilling over with wild poppies – expecting the usual seaside jaunt. But no, the bloody thing led us down a series of ever-narrowing lanes, past signs warning of “unsuitable for motor vehicles,” until we were proper lost in the Broads. And you know what? That cock-up turned out to be the best bit of the holiday.

First off, stumbling upon that hidden mooring spot by Reedham. We’d abandoned the car (wisely) and were faffing about on foot when we spotted this rickety jetty poking out from the reeds. No tourists in sight, just a couple of wherries chugging lazily by and a heron eyeing us suspiciously. We hired a little rowboat from a weathered old chap who looked like he’d been born on the water, and spent the afternoon pottering through secret cuts where the water’s like glass and the only soundtrack is the wind rustling the marshes. It was pure magic – far better than any guided cruise. I caught myself thinking, “Blimey, when did I last just drift without a care?” A proper moment of reflection amid the ducks.

The next accidental triumph came courtesy of my rubbish sense of direction. One misty morning, aiming for a National Trust beach, I took a “shortcut” through the dunes near Holkham. Ended up in this tucked-away pinewood glade that felt like Narnia – twisted roots, dappled light, and not a soul around. We picnicked on cheese ploughman’s from the cottage’s Aga-baked leftovers, watching roe deer tiptoe past. Laugh out loud when I tripped over a rabbit hole and ended up arse-over-tit in the sand; my other half reckoned it was karma for dragging her there. But honestly, those off-the-beaten-path dunes beat any crowded promenade. Norfolk’s coast is full of these sneaky spots if you dare veer off the path.

Evenings back at the cottage were bliss after our wanderings. We’d fire up the wood burner, crack open a bottle of Norfolk cider, and pore over crumpled Ordnance Survey maps like proper explorers. One night, following a hunch from a local scribble on a pub napkin, we found Stiffkey’s saltmarshes at dusk – a vast, echoing wilderness where seals bark from the mudflats and the sky turns apocalyptic pink. Got properly lost again on the way back, mind, but who cares? It forced us to chat properly, away from screens, and I realised how rare that is these days.

That holiday taught me that Norfolk’s real treasures aren’t on Instagram – they’re the ones you bump into when you bin the GPS and embrace the detour. If you’re heading to a cracking cottage like ours, do yourself a favour: get lost on purpose. You might just find yourself.