I’ll never forget the weekend I stumbled upon that cracking holiday cottage tucked away in a forgotten corner of Norfolk – the kind of place you only find if your sat-nav throws a wobbly and you end up proper lost. It was one of those chocolate-box thatched jobbies near the North Norfolk coast, all wonky beams and a garden spilling over with wild poppies. I’d booked it on a whim, thinking we’d do the usual Cromer crab shacks and Blakeney seals, but Norfolk had other ideas. Getting lost became our best mate, leading us to hidden gems that no TripAdvisor listie would touch.

First off, we took a wrong turn down a single-track lane near Cley-next-the-Sea – you know, the one with the wonky windmill that looks like it’s had one too many at the pub. Instead of the main road, we bumped into a deserted pebble beach at Gramborough Hill, where the seals were having a right old chinwag on the sandbanks. No crowds, just us, a thermos of builder’s tea, and a family of grey seals eyeballing us like we’d crashed their poker night. I sat there chuckling to myself, realising how daft it is back home in London, glued to screens, missing this proper fresh air therapy.

The real magic kicked in when we proper lost ourselves in the inland lanes around Holt. Sat-nav said one thing, but a cheeky “shortcut” sign lured us down a mud track to a secret spot by the River Glaven – a wild swimming hole locals must guard like buried treasure. Crystal-clear water, kingfishers darting about, and not a soul in sight. We stripped to our cozzie (well, I say “stripped” – more like wrestled out of soggy jeans after a downpour), and plunged in. Freezing? You bet, but that numb-tingly buzz afterwards? Pure bliss. I had a proper moment there, floating on my back, thinking about how life’s too short for sticking to maps. Why plough the tourist furrows when the weeds hide the best bits?

Even the cottage itself felt like an accidental find within an accidental find. Its garden backed onto a nature reserve we didn’t know existed – Thursford way, but off the steam railway racket. One evening, we wandered through a kissing gate into a meadow buzzing with glow-worms after dark. Magical, innit? Sat on a blanket with a bottle of Norfolk cider, watching them twinkle like fairy lights on the cheap. My mate Dave reckoned it was aliens; I blamed the cider. Either way, it beat any fancy spa.

Norfolk’s genius is how it rewards the wanderers. Those off-the-beaten-track jaunts – the empty marshes near Stiffkey, where we spied spoonbills doing their best ballerina impressions, or stumbling on a crumbling WWII pillbox turned bird hide – they’re the holidays you don’t Instagram, but tattoo on your soul. Next time I’m packing the Ordnance Survey map, ditching the phone, and embracing the lost. Who needs plans when paradise hides in the hedgerows?