I’ll never forget the sheer panic of taking a wrong turn on those narrow Norfolk lanes – you know, the ones that twist like a drunk badger through endless hedges. We’d rented this splendid holiday cottage just outside Burnham Market, a cosy stone affair with a thatched roof, wood-burning stove, and a garden that backed onto nothing but sky and salt marshes. Proper idyllic, the sort of place where you arrive knackered from London traffic and immediately crack open a bottle of Norfolk cider. But the real magic? Getting properly lost. That’s how we stumbled on Norfolk’s hidden gems, the off-the-beaten-track spots that no TripAdvisor list ever touches.

First wrong turn came on day two. We were aiming for Holkham Beach – you’ve seen it in films, all those vast sands and pinewoods – but my sat-nav conked out (blame the dodgy signal in these parts). Instead, we veered onto a single-track road that spat us out at Stiffkey Marshes. Blimey, what a find! No car parks heaving with tourists, just us, our wellies sinking into the mudflats as seals bobbed about like oversized puppies in the creek. We picnicked on crab sandwiches from the cottage’s Aga (I’d rustled them up, pretending I’m half-decent in the kitchen), watching avocets skim the water. It felt like we’d gatecrashed nature’s private party. I sat there, flask in hand, reflecting on how I never slow down back home – always rushing. Here, lost in the best way, time just stretched out.

Next mishap was pure comedy. Heading for a pub lunch, we missed the sign for Blakeney and ended up in Cley-next-the-Sea, but not the high street – oh no, we took a detour through back lanes to a shingle spit that led straight to the sea wall. Wind howling, scopes out (we’d borrowed some from the cottage owner, bless him), we spotted spoonbills nesting in the marshes. Spoonbills! Those pink, prehistoric-looking birds you read about but never see. We laughed till we cried when a gust nearly blew my hat into the North Sea – retrieved it dripping with seaweed, naturally. No crowds, no chip vans; just the raw edge of England, with the sun setting over Blakeney Point like it was putting on a show for us alone.

Evenings back at the cottage were for plotting the next “detour”. One night, fuelled by local Wherry ale, we pored over an ancient Ordnance Survey map the owner had left. It led us, via another navigational cock-up, to a forgotten tidal creek near Wells-next-the-Sea. We parked (illegally, but who cares?) and wandered a boardwalk through samphire beds, spotting otters at dusk. Magical, that – a reminder that my life’s too mapped out, too Google-reliant. Getting lost forced me to look up, breathe deep.

Norfolk’s like that: all big skies and secret corners, rewarding the wanderers. Our week of happy accidents beat any itinerary. If you’re heading to a cottage there, ditch the sat-nav. Embrace the wrong turn – it’s the best way to find the gems.