I’ll never forget the drive down to Hope Cove – that classic British holiday start where everything’s going swimmingly until it isn’t. We’d piled into the car in Bristol, full of beans after a greasy service station breakfast, winding our way along those narrow Devon lanes with the radio blasting some indie playlist. Then, about 20 minutes from our turning, the sat-nav decided to have a midlife crisis. “Recalculating,” it chirped, before directing us straight into a muddy farm track that looked like it hadn’t seen daylight since the war. Cue 15 minutes of reversing with hedges scraping the mirrors and me apologising profusely to the kids in the back. We emerged, laughing, with a splatter of Devon clay on the bumper – the perfect icebreaker for the adventure ahead.

Pulling up to our gorgeous first-floor apartment right on the coastal path at Hope Cove, my heart did a little flip. It was even better than the photos: a cosy spot for four, with sea views that stretched out like a promise of lazy days. We dumped the bags, cracked open a bottle of local cider, and stepped out onto the path, buzzing with that arrival anticipation – you know, that mix of “what have we stumbled into?” and “this is going to be brilliant.”

From there, it was all about the hidden gems we found by happy accident, the off-the-beaten-track nooks that only come from getting properly lost. Our first wander along the coastal path took us beyond the obvious cliffs to a tiny cove I’d never heard of, stumbled upon when we veered off the main trail chasing a rogue seagull. Pebbles crunched underfoot, and there was this secret beach where the water was so clear you could see the crabs scuttling about. We picnicked there with pasties from the village shop – flaky, steaming, and stuffed with proper chunks of meat – feeling like we’d gatecrashed someone else’s paradise.

The next day, we took a wrong turn inland from Bolberry Down, ending up at this blink-and-you-miss-it farm lane that led to a wildflower meadow overlooking the sea. No crowds, just bees buzzing and the kids running wild, pretending to be explorers. It was one of those moments that made me pause – sat there on a rug, wind in my hair, thinking how often we rush past these spots in life, heads down on the main paths. A gentle nudge to myself: slow down, get lost more often.

Evenings brought more serendipity. A meander from the apartment led us to a tucked-away pub in the hamlet of South Huish, where locals nursed pints and shared tales of smuggling wrecks (or so they claimed). We devoured fresh seafood platters – plump prawns and glistening mackerel – washed down with a crisp white from down the road. Another dusk, we lost ourselves in the dunes near Ayrmer Cove, unearthing a sheltered nook for a beach fire (permitted, of course, and with marshmallows at the ready). The flames flickered against the fading light, and we toasted to serendipity.

Hope Cove’s magic is in these accidental discoveries – the coves, meadows, and hushed corners that reward the wanderer. It wasn’t the postcard Devon, but the real, rumpled version, and I’m already plotting our return to lose ourselves all over again.