I’ll never forget the moment I turned off the A1 onto those narrow, twisting lanes in Northumberland, thinking I’d booked a quaint holiday cottage for a bit of peace and quiet. Little did I know, it was the start of the best kind of adventure: the sort where you stumble upon hidden wonders purely by accident. Our stone cottage near Embleton, with its cosy Aga, creaky beams, and a garden tumbling down to dunes, was splendid alright – the kind of place that makes you want to bin the sat-nav and just wander.

First day, I fancied a stroll to the beach. Armed with Ordnance Survey maps (because who needs Google these days?), I headed out, only to take a “shortcut” through a field that wasn’t on any path. Cue me knee-deep in mud, swearing at a flock of sheep who looked far too smug. But oh, the payoff! I emerged onto Embleton Bay at low tide, where the sand stretches for miles, dotted with rock pools teeming with anemones and tiny crabs. No crowds, no chip vans – just me, the North Sea’s rumble, and a seal popping up like it owned the place. I sat there for hours, picking up fossilised sea urchins, feeling like I’d gatecrashed a secret club.

The real magic kicked in when we decided to “explore” inland. My other half suggested a drive to Alnwick Castle – you know, the Hogwarts one – but I missed the turn (deliberately? Who’s telling?). Instead, we ended up on single-track roads through the Cheviot Hills, bouncing along like extras in a James Herriot episode. We parked by a drystone wall and hiked up a barely-there path, rewarded with a view over Coquetdale that stopped us dead. Wild ponies grazed below, buzzards wheeled overhead, and not a soul in sight. We picnicked on cheese rolls from the village shop, laughing about how I’d once been a city lad who thought “countryside” meant Hyde Park.

Getting properly lost was the highlight, though. One drizzly afternoon, post a pub lunch of battered haddock and chips at The Ship in Warkworth (pure heaven), we wandered the dunes behind our cottage. I veered off towards what looked like a rabbit hole – turned out to be the path to a hidden cove at Low Newton-by-the-Sea. Tucked between grassy hummocks, it’s a crescent of golden sand where the sea crashes against basalt stacks. We found a smugglers’ cave, or so we imagined, its walls etched with ancient graffiti. As the sun broke through, painting everything honey-gold, I had one of those gentle what-am-I-doing-with-my-life moments. Here I was, mid-forties, mortgage-ridden, yet accidentally unearthing joys I didn’t know existed. It hit me: life’s best bits aren’t planned; they’re the detours.

Evenings back at the cottage were bliss. We’d light the wood burner, crack open local Lindisfarne Mead, and pore over sketches of our accidental finds. One night, a barn owl ghosted past the window – pure serendipity. No Instagram influencers trampling the heather here; just us, the wind whistling through the chimney, and stories brewing.

Northumberland’s off-the-beaten-track spots are like that: elusive until you let go of the map. Our week of happy misadventures reminded me that sometimes, the finest holidays aren’t about ticking boxes, but about losing your way and finding yourself instead. If you’re fancying a jaunt, book a cottage like ours – and leave the GPS at home. You won’t regret it.