I’ll never forget the drive down to Dartmouth – that classic British holiday trek where the sat-nav decides to have a midlife crisis just as you hit the winding Devon lanes. We’d loaded up the car with enough snacks to feed a small army (essential for keeping the kids happy), but about 20 minutes from our destination, it routed us down what felt like a goat track. Branches scraping the roof, heart in my mouth, and me muttering about trusting technology less in future. We emerged unscathed, though, laughing about it as we finally spotted the harbour glittering below.

Pulling up to our first-floor apartment right by the water was pure magic – that buzz of anticipation when you’ve made it, bags in hand, ready to flop. It’s one of those tastefully done-up spots, cosy yet swish, with two massive king-size bedrooms (ours could’ve been twins if needed), each with its own en-suite and a Smart TV for lazy evenings. Parking was a dream, even with the EV charger on hand, and from the moment we stepped in, it felt like home – harbour views from the windows, everything spot-on for a family unwind.

But the real joy? Getting properly lost. Dartmouth’s got its postcard spots, sure, but we stumbled on the hidden gems by accident, which made the whole trip sparkle. First wander, we veered off the main drag down a sneaky path by the quay – thinking we’d just stretch our legs – and found this tucked-away pebble beach where locals were crabbing with nothing but string and bait. No crowds, just us, the kids shrieking with delight as they hauled up tiny green crabs. Felt like we’d gatecrashed a secret club.

Next day, aiming for a quick coffee, we took a wrong turn up above the town and ended up on the Dart Valley Trail – an off-the-beaten-path footpath weaving through woods that smelled like damp earth and wild garlic. It spat us out at a wildflower meadow overlooking the river, perfect for a picnic we hadn’t even planned. Sat there munching pasties from a hole-in-the-wall baker we’d found earlier (properly flaky, stuffed with proper Devon beef), watching boats chug by. Pure bliss, and zero Instagram hordes.

One evening, chasing a sunset, we got lost again in the maze of streets behind the harbour – straight into a wee community garden hidden down an alley. Overgrown benches, buzzing bees, and a view across to Kingswear that stopped us in our tracks. We stayed till dusk, reflecting on how these unplanned detours beat any guidebook. Me? I’m usually a planner to a fault – spreadsheets for holidays, honestly – but getting lost taught me to loosen up. Let the lanes lead you.

Wandering back, past blackberry bushes heavy with fruit (free dessert!), we’d circle to the apartment, knackered but buzzing. Those accidental finds – the crabbing cove, the secret trail, that garden nook – turned a cracking stay into something unforgettable. Devon’s got a knack for that, doesn’t it? If you’re after proper South Devon magic without the coach parties, just park up, step out, and let yourself get gloriously lost.