I’ll never forget the drive down to that little village in Sussex – sat nav on, tea thermos in hand, full of anticipation for a proper escape. We’d been buzzing about it for weeks, picturing lazy walks and cracking pub lunches. But typical me, I took a wrong turn somewhere near Haywards Heath, ending up on a single-track lane that seemed to lead nowhere but fields and startled sheep. Heart in mouth, reversing round a blind bend while swearing under my breath (silently, mind), we finally spotted the sign for Westmeston. What a relief – and what a first impression. Nestled at the foot of the South Downs, these two neighbouring properties couldn’t have been more inviting: one cosy cottage vibe, the other a chic garden room setup, both screaming peace and quiet. From the doorstep, you could practically taste the fresh air.

We dumped the bags and hit the trails straight away, no plans, just following our noses. That’s when the magic kicked in – getting properly lost in the best way. The South Downs Way starts right there, but we veered off onto these unmarked paths that wound through chalky valleys and hidden dew ponds. Stumbled across a tucked-away dew pond first, shimmering like a secret mirror, with skylarks chirping overhead. No crowds, just us and the buzzards. Laughed our heads off when we realised we’d looped back to a stile we’d crossed an hour earlier – classic us, but it led to this accidental gem: a wildflower meadow buzzing with butterflies, the kind of spot you’d never find on a map.

Next day, same story. Aiming for the pubs down the lane – both absolute belters, one with the best Sunday roast I’ve had in ages, all golden Yorkshire puds and proper gravy – we took a detour through a shady copse and found a forgotten dew pond hideout, perfect for a picnic. Sat there with cheese ploughman’s from the village shop, watching rabbits hop about. Pure bliss. Wandered further, got tangled in a network of bridleways, and bingo – emerged at a viewpoint over the Weald that felt like our private balcony. Sun dipping low, painting everything gold. No tourists, no signs, just that quiet thrill of discovery.

It’s funny how holidays like this make you reflect. Back home, I’m always rushing, glued to screens, missing the simple stuff. Here, losing ourselves in those off-the-beaten paths stripped it all back – no signal half the time, which was a blessing. We’d chat properly, spot kingfishers darting by streams, even unearthed a hidden bench with a plaque to some local poet from the 1800s. One evening, after pints at the pub (the other one does a mean fish pie), we chased a sunset trail that dead-ended at a fairy-ring of mushrooms in a dell. Felt like kids again.

By the end of the week, we’d mapped our own wonky routes on an old Ordnance Survey map, all scribbled with “hidden gem here!” Those two properties were the perfect base – steps from it all, yet worlds away. If you fancy ditching the crowds for Sussex’s secret side, get yourself lost down there. You won’t regret it.