We set off from the ferry in good time, map app confidently promising a straightforward half-hour drive to the five-bed cottage in Seaview. Naturally we managed to miss the turning twice, the second time ending up on a single-track lane that narrowed until the hedgerows were practically brushing both wing mirrors. A sudden pothole jolted the sat-nav off its mount and into the footwell, and by the time I’d fished it out we were thoroughly lost on a winding back road that seemed to lead nowhere in particular.

What began as mild panic turned into the first of several happy accidents. Rounding a bend we spotted a hand-painted sign half-hidden by brambles: “Seagrove Bay – ¼ mile, footpath only.” We parked on the verge and followed the overgrown track down through bracken and gorse, emerging onto a small crescent of shingle that felt miles from anywhere. No ice-cream vans, no rows of deckchairs, just a couple of locals walking their dogs and the gentle lap of the Solent. We lingered longer than planned, toes in the cool water, watching a red-sailed dinghy tack lazily across the bay.

By the time we found the cottage again the light was softening and our earlier frustration had evaporated. The house sits just above the village, its garden gate opening onto a footpath that winds between flint walls and wildflower verges. Stepping inside felt like slipping into someone else’s Sunday routine: well-thumbed paperbacks on the shelves, a jar of local honey by the kettle, and five proper bedrooms that meant nobody had to argue over who got the biggest bed. From the upstairs windows you can just glimpse the sea between rooftops, and the low evening sun caught on the water like someone had flicked gold leaf across it.

The next morning we abandoned any notion of a plan. Instead of heading for the obvious promenade we followed another narrow lane that petered out into a farm track. Half an hour later we stumbled upon a tiny Norman church tucked behind a yew hedge, its door unlocked and a visitors’ book recording names from as far back as 1897. We signed it, left a pound in the honesty box, and carried on, discovering a chalky footpath that climbed between fields of barley before dropping back toward the coast. At the bottom we found a bench overlooking a quiet stretch of sand where a single fishing boat was drawn up; we ate our packed lunch there, listening to the gulls and the faint chug of a distant ferry.

Getting properly lost became our favourite pastime. One afternoon we took what we thought was a shortcut through the woods behind Nettlestone and ended up on a private drive that opened onto someone’s back garden. The owner, pruning roses, simply pointed us toward a stile half-hidden by nettles. Beyond it lay another pocket of shingle, this one scattered with driftwood and the occasional piece of sea-smoothed china. We collected a few shards, more for the story than the souvenir, then wandered back as the tide crept in.

By the end of the week the sat-nav was still in the glovebox and we’d stopped caring where we were meant to be. The cottage welcomed us each evening with the same calm indifference, its kitchen table steadily accumulating postcards, shells and half-read novels. I’d gone expecting a straightforward beach holiday; instead we found ourselves happily adrift among lanes and footpaths we hadn’t known existed, grateful for every wrong turn that led somewhere better.