I’ll never forget the drive to the Isle of Wight for our recent holiday – or rather, the ferry crossing that nearly did us in. We’d piled into the car at Portsmouth, buzzing with that proper holiday anticipation, kids in the back chattering about beaches and ice creams. But as we queued for the Wightlink ferry, a cheeky seagull dive-bombed our windscreen, splattering it with what looked like an entire fish supper. Laughing like idiots, we wiped it off with a pack of baby wipes, arriving at our Ventnor penthouse a bit late but in high spirits. First impressions? Blimey, what a spot. Perched in this picturesque seaside town on the island’s south coast, the place was a stylish three-bed haven sleeping six, perfect for our family crew. Light and airy, with cracking views over the sea – we dumped the bags and cracked open the prosecco straight away.

Keen to shake off the travel, we wandered out without a map, just following our noses. That’s the magic of the Isle of Wight – it’s riddled with hidden gems if you let yourself get lost. Our first accidental find was a tucked-away cove just a short stroll from the penthouse. We’d taken a wrong turn down a narrow lane off the esplanade, expecting to hit the main beach, but instead stumbled on a pebbly inlet called Potato Bay. Barely a soul there, just us paddling in the shallows, skipping stones, and spotting little crabs scuttling about. The kids declared it better than any tourist trap – pure, unspoiled Wight bliss.

Next day, we aimed for Ventnor Botanic Garden, about a mile and a half up the road, but took a detour through the back streets. Got properly lost in a maze of hedges and ended up at the edge of a forgotten orchard, wild apples dangling like Christmas baubles. We picked a few (honest, they were windfalls), munching as we backtracked. The garden itself was a revelation – this subtropical oasis right on our doorstep, with exotic palms and rare ferns thriving in the microclimate. We spent hours pottering about, discovering a hidden fern grotto that felt like stepping into Jurassic Park, minus the dinos. No crowds, just the hum of bees and that salty sea breeze.

The real highlight came when we veered off-path towards St Boniface Down, a couple of miles inland. We parked haphazardly and hiked up what we thought was a main trail, only to veer onto a sheep track that led us astray. Blundering through gorse, we emerged at a secret viewpoint overlooking sheer cliffs and the twinkling Channel – panoramic views that knocked our socks off. Sat there with sandwiches, watching paragliders soar, I had one of those gentle moments of self-reflection: when did I last switch off the sat-nav and just wander? Life’s too short for always knowing the way.

Evenings back at the penthouse were cosy, cooking up fish and chips with windows flung open to the sound of waves. Ventnor’s got that unpretentious charm – chip shops, indie cafes, and lanes begging to be explored. We found a blink-and-you-miss-it ice cream parlour down an alley, with flavours like elderflower sorbet that tasted of summer itself. Getting lost turned our holiday into an adventure, uncovering the island’s off-the-beaten-track soul. If you’re after a proper escape, this is it – just pack your sense of direction loosely.