I’ll never forget the drive down to Worthing last month – me, a dodgy sat-nav, and a boot full of mismatched picnic gear. I’d set off from London full of that bubbly anticipation, imagining lazy beach days and fresh sea air, but about halfway there, the heavens opened and my windscreen wipers decided to pack up. Cue me squinting through the rain like a pirate navigating a storm, pulling over twice to give them a good thump. By the time I rolled into town, I was soaked, late, and questioning my life choices. But oh, what a first impression the place made! The holiday flat was this cosy, modern bolthole right by the seafront, all sleek lines and big windows framing the waves – pure bliss after that soggy ordeal.

Unpacked and buzzing, I stepped out for a wander, no real plan except to breathe it all in. That’s when the magic of getting lost kicked in. Instead of heading straight to the promenade crowds, I veered off down a side street near West Buildings, chasing the sound of gulls. Ended up stumbling on this tucked-away stretch of shingle beach, hidden behind a row of beach huts painted in every colour under the sun. No tourists in sight, just me, a thermos of tea, and the pebbles crunching underfoot. I plonked down for an hour, watching fishing boats bob about – felt like I’d nicked a secret from the locals.

Next day, I proper embraced the art of aimless rambling. Aiming for the pier (which is fab, by the way, all twinkly lights and ice cream), I took a wrong turn onto Warwick Road and found myself in this wee enclave of indie shops and cafés that don’t make it onto any map. There’s a tiny bookshop crammed with dog-eared paperbacks and a hole-in-the-wall spot doing the best crab sandwiches I’ve ever scoffed – fresh, tangy, with a lemony kick that had me moaning in delight. Laugh out loud, I even got chatting to the owner, who tipped me off about a nearby spot for crabbing off the rocks. Armed with bacon scraps from the local Sainsbury’s, I spent the afternoon dangling string into rock pools, pulling up mini monsters. Caught three! Released them, mind – I’m not *that* heartless.

The real gem, though, came on my last evening. Lost again (what can I say, it’s my superpower), I wandered up towards High Salvington, away from the main drag. Stumbled on these wind-swept chalk paths winding down to a secluded cove, fringed by scrubby grass and wildflowers. Sat there as the sun dipped, painting the sea gold, with not a soul around. It hit me then – in the rush of everyday life back home, I never make space for this kind of accidental joy. Here I was, phone forgotten, just soaking it up. Gentle reminder to myself: stop planning every minute, start getting lost more often.

Those few days in that sea-view flat? Absolute tonic. Sussex has this knack for hiding its best bits just off the path – you just have to let yourself stray. Can’t wait to go back and lose my way all over again.