I’ll never forget the time I stumbled upon the most splendid holiday cottage in Norfolk, tucked away down a winding lane that my sat-nav swore didn’t exist. It was one of those perfect accidents – I’d taken a wrong turn off the A149 near Burnham Market, chasing what I thought was a shortcut to the coast, and suddenly there it was: a cosy thatched beauty with roses rambling over the door and a garden that backed straight onto marshland. No flashy Airbnb vibes, just proper Norfolk charm, complete with a wood-burning stove and a Rayburn that cooked the best spuds I’ve ever tasted. Booking it last minute felt like winning the lottery, and from the off, the whole trip became a glorious exercise in getting lost – the good kind, mind.

First morning, cuppa in hand, I decided to explore on foot, no map, no plan. Norfolk’s got that flat openness that plays tricks on you; one minute you’re on a proper path, the next you’re knee-deep in a dyke, cursing your wellies. That’s how I found Cley Marshes, not the touristy bit everyone raves about, but a hidden boardwalk trail that looped through reed beds alive with bitterns booming like grumpy tubas. I must’ve sat there for hours, binoculars borrowed from the cottage owner, spotting avocets and bearded tits – proper rarities. Felt like I’d gatecrashed nature’s VIP lounge. Laughed at myself later, covered in mud, thinking how I’d planned a ‘relaxing’ holiday but ended up playing Bear Grylls.

Afternoons were for cycling, borrowing rusty bikes from the shed that creaked like they hadn’t moved since the war. I pedalled off towards Holkham, but missed the sign for the pines and ended up on secret tracks through the freshmarsh. There’s this off-the-beaten-path spot where the grazing marshes meet the pines – empty sands stretching forever, seals barking from the mudflats like cheeky locals shouting hello. No car parks, no ice cream vans, just me picnicking on local crab sandwiches from a Blakeney smokehouse I’d found by accident the day before. Got properly lost once, looping back via a farm track that spat me out at a tiny church in Stiffkey, all wonky gravestones and whispers of smuggling history. Chatting to a farmer there about his prize pigs, I realised how these chance encounters beat any guidebook.

Evenings back at the cottage were magic, supping Norfolk cider by the Aga, reflecting on how sod’s law had gifted me the trip’s best bits. I’d set off each day aiming for big-name beaches like Hunstanton, but always veered off into these hidden gems – a forgotten windmill near Sculthorpe, or a wild swimming hole off the River Wensum that I wouldn’t have clocked without my dodgy sense of direction. Sure, I’m a bit scatty, always have been; Mum says it’s why I never win at Monopoly. But out in Norfolk’s back-of-beyond, that flaw turned into my superpower. No regrets about ditching the itinerary – getting lost there showed me the county’s real soul, far from the coach parties. If you’re heading that way, ditch the GPS and let the lanes lead you. You might just find your own slice of splendid.