I’ll never forget the sheer panic when my sat-nav gave up the ghost on that first afternoon in Norfolk. There we were, me and the missus, trundling along in our rented Fiesta, fresh off the A140 from Norwich, heading to this splendid holiday cottage we’d booked on a whim. It was one of those chocolate-box affairs – thatched roof, roses round the door, tucked away in a sleepy hamlet near Swaffham. Proper Norfolk charm, with creaky beams inside and a garden that backed straight onto fields buzzing with lapwings. But as we veered off the main road towards it, the phone signal vanished, and suddenly we were proper lost. Instead of stressing, we embraced it – turned out, getting lost was the best bit of the whole trip.

First hidden gem? We stumbled on a deserted windmill, half-crumbled and ivy-cloaked, on a single-track lane that didn’t even have a name. No tourists, no signs – just us clambering over a stile for a nose about. Turns out it was an old drainage mill from the Fens era, with a view across marshes that stretched to forever. We picnicked there with cheese from the local deli (Norfolk’s got cracking dairy farms), watching hares box in the distance. Proper magical, and not a soul in sight. I chuckled to myself, thinking how I’d have missed this faffing about on TripAdvisor – sometimes my inner control freak needs a right good ignoring.

Next day, another wrong turn down a bridleway near the cottage led us to a secret beach at Holkham. Yeah, you’ve heard of Holkham Bay, but this was the bit beyond the car park, where the pines give way to dunes you could lose a village in. We parked up (illegally, mind, but no rangers about), kicked off our wellies, and wandered for hours. Seals bobbed offshore, and the sand was so fine it squeaked underfoot. Found a wrecked rowing boat half-buried, perfect for a daft photo op. Lunch was cockles from a bloke’s van – fresh as, with malt vinegar and a wink. Getting lost here felt like cheating the system; no queues, no ice cream crowds, just the North Sea whispering secrets.

Evenings back at the cottage were bliss. We’d fire up the Aga for a roast (Norfolk turkey, obviously), then mooch to the garden for stargazing. One night, a massive harvest moon lit up the lanes, and we followed it on foot to a poacher’s hide overlooking the River Wissey. Rabbits everywhere, and the air thick with woodsmoke from some distant farm. I sat there with a pint of Adnams, reflecting on how holidays like this nudge you out of routine. Back home, I’m always glued to screens; out here, accidentally off-grid, I actually chatted properly with the wife. Felt a bit soppy admitting it, but yeah, we needed that reset.

Our last detour? A farm shop detour gone wrong spat us out at a wildflower meadow near Thetford Forest. Butterflies by the thousand, and a bench where we scoffed flapjacks baked that morning. Norfolk’s full of these unadvertised pockets – you just have to ditch the map. That cottage was our launchpad to proper adventures, proving the best holidays aren’t planned, they’re stumbled upon. If you’re heading that way, pack patience and get lost. You won’t regret it.