I’ll never forget the sheer joy of stumbling upon our splendid holiday cottage in Norfolk last summer – or rather, the joy of getting utterly lost on the way there. We’d rented this cosy gem near the North Norfolk coast, tucked away down a winding lane that Google Maps swore didn’t exist. After an hour of arguing with the satnav and circling fields of golden wheat, we finally spotted it: a chocolate-box thatched cottage with roses rambling over the door, complete with a quirky wishing well in the garden that probably hadn’t granted a single wish since the Blitz.

From the off, it was clear this wasn’t your bog-standard seaside break. No, our Norfolk adventure was all about those hidden gems you only find when you take a wrong turn – and boy, did we take a few. First morning, fancying a proper fry-up, we aimed for a pub in a nearby village but ended up in Burnham Deepdale instead. What a fluke! There, off the A149, we discovered Deepdale Farm Café, a ramshackle delight run by folks who brew coffee strong enough to wake the dead and serve the fluffiest pancakes this side of the Wash. We sat in their wildflower meadow, watching marsh harriers soar overhead, feeling like we’d gatecrashed a secret picnic.

Emboldened, we ditched the car for bikes – the cottage thoughtfully provided a couple of rusty tandems – and pedalled into the unknown along the old railway track at Morston. Norfolk’s coastal path is a wanderer’s dream, all reed-fringed marshes and salty breezes, but we veered off onto a barely-there footpath that led to a secluded creek. Seals bobbed about like cheeky locals, eyeing us as if to say, “You lot aren’t from round here.” We picnicked on crab sandwiches from a smokery we’d blundered into the day before, laughing as the tandem’s chain snapped mid-ride. Me, ever the optimist, tried to fix it with a hairpin; needless to say, we walked back, covered in mud and grinning like idiots.

The real magic, though, came one drizzly afternoon when we got properly disoriented in the Holkham pines. Aiming for the beach, we lost the path amid dunes that stretched forever, stumbling instead onto a hidden boardwalk overlooking Blakeney Point. No crowds, just the whisper of waves and a sky turning pink. It was there, munching on samphire we’d foraged (well, pinched from the saltmarshes), that I had a quiet moment of reflection. Life back home in London feels like a treadmill sometimes – deadlines, Tube delays, the lot. Out here, getting lost isn’t a faff; it’s a gift. It strips away the plan and leaves you with the good stuff: space to breathe, to chat properly with your other half, to remember why you bother with holidays at all.

Evenings back at the cottage sealed it – wood-burning stove crackling, sipping local Adnams ale, planning tomorrow’s aimless ramble. We found a tucked-away windmill near Cley with a tearoom serving the best lemon drizzle cake imaginable, and a pebbled cove at Weybourne where we skimmed stones till our arms ached. Norfolk’s off-the-beaten-track charm isn’t about grand landmarks; it’s these accidental discoveries that make you feel like an explorer in your own backyard.

If you’re craving a break from the beaten path, book a cottage like ours and embrace the wrong turns. You might just find your way to bliss.