I’ll never forget the sheer joy of stumbling upon our splendid holiday cottage in Suffolk last summer – a cosy, thatched-roof gem tucked away down a winding lane near Woodbridge, the sort of place you only find if your sat-nav throws a wobbly and you end up properly lost. We’d booked it online, lured by photos of roses round the door and a garden that backed onto ancient woodland, but arriving felt like uncovering a secret. No neon signs or coach parties here; just the gentle hum of bees and the distant low of cattle. It was the perfect launchpad for what turned into the best kind of holiday: one defined by happy accidents and off-the-beaten-track discoveries.

Our first mishap came on day two, when I insisted on navigating us to Snape Maltings for a spot of live music. Instead of the main road, I took a “shortcut” through the Suffolk countryside that dissolved into a single-track affair flanked by hedgerows taller than me. Half an hour later, we were utterly bewildered in a hamlet called Blaxhall, staring at a weathered sign for the Ship Inn. Thirsty and giggling at my navigational prowess, we popped in for a pint. What a find! This unassuming village boozer, with its low beams and locals nursing real ales, served the crispiest fish and chips I’ve ever had – proper golden batter, not that greasy tourist fare. We got chatting to a chap who’d lived there 50 years, and he tipped us off about a nearby footpath leading to a secluded stretch of the River Deben. We followed it the next morning, boots squelching through mud, and emerged at a pebbly beach where seals bobbed in the estuary like cheeky neighbours. No crowds, just us, a thermos of tea, and the hypnotic lap of water. I sat there reflecting on how we city folk chase Instagram hotspots, yet the real magic hides in these unplanned detours.

The cottage itself encouraged more wandering. Its garden gate opened straight onto the Sandlings Heath, a vast tract of heather and gorse that’s a haven for nightjars and adders (we didn’t spot any, thank goodness). One evening, aiming for a sunset stroll to Rendlesham Forest – you know, the UFO hotspot – we veered off-piste and ended up at a hidden lily pond near Tunstall. Dragonflies danced over the water, and we picnicked on local Aldeburgh crab rolls from a farm shop we’d lucked into earlier. It was one of those moments that stopped me in my tracks: me, the eternal planner, realising that getting lost isn’t failing – it’s the whole point. Suffolk’s like that; its flat horizons and empty lanes whisper, “Go explore, you won’t regret it.”

By week’s end, we’d amassed a mental map of secret spots: a wild swimming hole off the Butley River, stumbled upon after a wrong turn near Orford; an ancient oak grove near Sutton Hoo where the air felt thick with history (Burial Mound Lite, minus the queues). Back home, I’ve vowed to ditch the maps more often. That cottage didn’t just give us a holiday; it taught us Suffolk’s true delight lies in its forgotten corners, found only when you embrace the art of being gloriously lost.