We’d barely left the A1 when the satnav decided we were going somewhere far more exciting than Amble. One wrong turn later we were trundling down a single-track lane lined with hawthorn, the sea nowhere in sight and the cottage address long forgotten. By the time we pulled up outside the little stone house, the light was fading and our nerves were frayed, but the moment the key turned in the lock the day felt instantly better. Warm lamplight spilled across the open-plan living space, the kettle was already filled on the Aga, and the faint smell of woodsmoke lingered from the log burner someone had thoughtfully laid. We dumped our bags, flicked the kettle on, and promised ourselves a proper explore in the morning.

The next day began with another navigational blunder—this time entirely deliberate. We set off on foot along the coastal path behind the cottage, intending only to stretch our legs before lunch, yet somehow ended up following a narrow track that veered inland through waist-high grass. Twenty minutes later we emerged at the edge of a quiet inlet we hadn’t seen on any map. A handful of small boats bobbed against a wooden jetty, and a family of oystercatchers strutted along the shingle as if they owned the place. We sat on an upturned lobster pot, shared a slightly squashed flapjack, and watched the tide slip in around our boots.

Further along the same unplanned route we stumbled across what looked like an abandoned walled garden tucked between two low dunes. The gate hung at a friendly angle, and inside we found a riot of wildflowers, a rusting wheelbarrow, and a wooden bench half-buried in thrift. We spent a contented half-hour there, listening to skylarks and wondering aloud how many other people had simply never noticed the turning. By the time we wandered back toward the cottage the light had turned that particular Northumberland gold, and the windows glowed invitingly across the fields.

Later, after a supper of local crab from the little honesty box we’d spotted by chance, we sat on the cottage step with mugs of tea and admitted we’d spent more time getting deliberately lost than following any plan. It felt like the right way to arrive somewhere new: slightly dishevelled, pleasantly surprised, and already wondering which hidden corner we might trip over tomorrow.