I’ll never forget the moment I turned off the satnav during our Derbyshire getaway, thinking, “Sod it, let’s see where this winding lane takes us.” We’d rented this splendid holiday cottage perched on the edge of the Peak District – a cosy stone affair called Weaver’s Nook, with creaky oak beams, a wood-burning stove that roared like a contented dragon, and views over rolling dales that made you forget the world. It was one of those places you stumble upon via a mate’s recommendation, far from the coach-party hordes at Chatsworth House. Arriving late on a drizzly Friday, we cracked open a bottle of local Marston’s Pedigree and planned a proper ramble the next day. Little did we know, the best bits would come from getting gloriously lost.

Saturday dawned crisp and golden, so we set off from the cottage door, boots laced, thermos in tow. No maps, no apps – just a vague notion of heading towards Dovedale. But Derbyshire’s lanes have a mind of their own, twisting like a sheepdog’s tail through drystone walls and forgotten hamlets. We missed the main path to the stepping stones entirely, veering instead onto a barely-there bridleway that plunged into a hidden limestone gorge. There it was: a secret cascade tumbling into a peaty pool, fringed with ferns and mossy boulders perfect for a impromptu paddle. Not a soul in sight. I splashed about like a daft kid, while my other half snapped photos, laughing at my soggy jeans. “This beats any guidebook,” she said. And she was right – it felt like we’d gatecrashed Narnia.

Emboldened, we pressed on, stomachs rumbling for a pub lunch. A wrong turn near Hartington led us to a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it village green, where a weathered sign pointed to “Peak Dairy Tearoom.” Inside, it was a treasure trove: homemade Stilton scones, gooey Bakewell tarts, and cheese straight from the farm next door. The owner, a chap with a beard like a Brillo pad, regaled us with tales of cheesemaking since the 1800s. We’d never have found it without ditching the A-road. Lunch devoured, we wandered into a nearby wood, uncharted on any Ordnance Survey. Bluebells carpeted the floor – early bloomers, apparently – and we spotted a red squirrel darting up a silver birch. I paused there, leaning against a trunk, feeling a rare quiet settle in. Holidays like this make you reflect: back home, I’m always chasing deadlines, glued to screens. Here, lost in the Peaks, time stretched out. Why don’t I do this more?

Sunday brought rain, but we weren’t deterred. From the cottage’s back garden – a wild patch with a henhouse we’d inherited for fresh eggs – we followed a sheep trod up onto the moors. Lost again, naturally, we stumbled into Mam Tor’s wilder sibling: a lesser-known outcrop called Lose Hill. No car park pandemonium, just panoramic sweeps over Edale Valley, mist curling like smoke from a shepherd’s pipe. We picnicked on those eggs, scrambled with cheddar from Hartington, watching curlews wheel overhead. The humour hit when I slipped on peat, emerging like a mud monster. “You look like you’ve been wrestling a bog beast,” my partner chuckled, handing me a flask of builder’s tea.

Our last evening, back at Weaver’s Nook, we lit the stove and pored over scribbled notes of our detours. That’s the magic of Derbyshire cottages: they’re launchpads for accidental adventures. Forget the tourist traps; the real gems – hidden gills, secret dairies, silent hills – reward the wanderer who lets go of the plan. I drove home vowing to bin the satnav more often. Next time, we’re booking Weaver’s again. Derbyshire, you sneaky beauty, you’ve got me hooked.