I’ll never forget the drive down to that cracking Devon farmhouse near Oakford – we’d piled the car high with wellies, dog leads and enough crisps to siege a castle, only for the sat-nav to chuck a wobbly just past Tiverton. It rerouted us down some winding lane that looked more like a sheep’s personal runway, and before we knew it, we were proper lost, bumping along with the dogs whining in the boot. A quick U-turn and a muttered “trusty technology, my foot” later, we finally rolled up, hearts racing a bit from the anticipation. But blimey, what a first impression – this spacious, luxurious spot sleeps up to 14 guests and three canine mates, all wrapped in traditional country-style decor with a massive open-plan living space, wood burners for cosy nights, and a stylish triple-aspect lounge that just screams “kick back and relax”. The large garden stretched out like an invitation to forget the world, and we were smitten before we’d even unpacked.

With a group that size – mates, kids, and the obligatory labradoodles – we weren’t ones for tourist traps. No, our holiday was all about stumbling on Devon’s hidden gems by happy accident, the sort of off-the-beaten-track finds that make you feel like you’ve nicked a secret from the locals. First mishap-led discovery came that very afternoon: instead of heading straight to the obvious trails, we took a “shortcut” (famous last words) towards Exmoor National Park’s edge, just a couple of miles off. Ended up at this tucked-away picnic spot by a babbling brook near Withypool Hill – not a soul around, just us, sarnies, and the dogs splashing about. It was pure magic, the kind of place guidebooks skip because it’s too blinkin’ unfindable without getting lost first.

Next day, faffing about in the garden with a brew, we fancied a coastal jaunt but veered wrong onto a single-track road towards the Devonshire coast’s quieter bits near Combe Martin. Lost again, but jackpot – we pitched up at a pebbly cove called Widmouth, hidden behind a clump of gorse, where the sea crashed like it was auditioning for a pirate film. No chip vans or towel-flapping crowds; just rock pools teeming with crabs that had the kids (and me, if I’m honest) giggling like loons for hours. We picnicked on pasties smuggled from a rural tearoom in nearby Oakford village –proper job, flaky and steaming.

The real heart of it was those rural towns on our doorstep, like stumbling into Parracombe on a whim after another sat-nav sulk. A dot-on-the-map pub with ale that tasted of hedgerows and a village green where time forgot to turn up. Even a wrong turn near the farm led to a wildflower meadow bursting with butterflies – turned out it was a locals’ wild swimming hole, bracing as a slap but utterly invigorating.

Looking back, getting lost was the best bit. In the rush of city life, I’m always charging ahead, but those meandering Devon lanes forced me to slow down, breathe, and let serendipity lead. That farmhouse was our perfect base – wood burners crackling as we swapped tales of the day’s detours over scrabble and vino. If you’re after a restful getaway that’s memorable for all the right reasons, pack your sense of adventure (and a spare phone charger), and let Devon’s secrets unfold. We’re already plotting a return.