We’d only just pulled off the A1 when the satnav decided we were having a laugh. One minute we were trundling happily towards Alnwick, the next it was barking at us to turn left onto what looked suspiciously like a farm track. By the time we realised the “shortcut” was actually someone’s driveway, we’d already scattered three indignant sheep and reversed into a hedge. My partner was still apologising to the bemused farmer when I spotted a hand-painted sign half-hidden in the long grass: “Coastal Path this way – mind the nettles.” We took it as fate rather than folly and abandoned the car for a wander.

The path led us straight into a pocket of Northumberland I’d never heard of, a narrow strip of dunes rolling down to a quiet crescent of sand that maps seem to forget. No kiosks, no car parks, just a couple of fishing boats pulled up on the shingle and the sort of silence that makes you lower your voice without thinking. We kicked off our shoes and followed the tideline until a sudden rain shower sent us scurrying towards what turned out to be the back garden of Smithy Cottage itself. The owners were outside pegging out towels and, after the obligatory weather chat, pointed us towards a tiny bothy tucked behind the dunes where, they said, someone sometimes left driftwood sculptures. Naturally we got gloriously lost again trying to find it, ending up on a grassy headland watching seals bobbing just offshore like curious spectators.

By the time we finally located the cottage key under the boot scraper, the light was turning that soft Northumberland gold that makes everything look gentler. Smithy Cottage sat low and solid, its thick walls still faintly warm from the day’s sun, and the wood-burner was already laid ready for later. Inside, the rooms felt lived-in rather than show-home: a squashy sofa that had clearly hosted years of sandy feet, a kitchen table big enough for board games when the rain inevitably arrived, and windows that framed nothing but sky and sea. We dropped our bags, made tea in mismatched mugs, and sat on the doorstep watching the tide creep back in.

That first evening set the tone for the whole stay. Each morning we’d set off with no real plan, only to stumble across another half-forgotten spot: a lichen-covered lime kiln half-buried in bracken, a tiny freshwater burn where we paddled like children, a clifftop bench someone had painted bright yellow and left with a visitors’ book full of doodles. Getting lost became our default setting, and every wrong turn seemed to reward us with another pocket of quiet we’d never have found otherwise. By the end of the week I’d stopped worrying about itineraries altogether. Sometimes the best bits of Northumberland are the ones you weren’t even looking for, and Smithy Cottage turned out to be the perfect base for not finding them on purpose.