I’ll never forget the drive down to Devon last month – me behind the wheel of our trusty old estate car, sat-nav chirping away like it knew best, and my other half navigating with a crumpled Ordnance Survey map. We’d set off from Bristol full of beans, dreaming of cream teas and coastal walks, but about halfway through, disaster struck. A rogue pheasant decided to play chicken with us on a narrow lane near Honiton, forcing me into an emergency swerve that sent us bumping into a ditch. No damage, thank goodness, just a lot of swearing under my breath and a reminder that rural roads aren’t for the faint-hearted. We laughed it off, dusted ourselves down, and carried on, my anticipation building with every twisty mile. By the time we crested the hill and spotted our holiday cottage – a cosy, chocolate-box number with a thatched roof and flower-filled garden – I was grinning like a kid at Christmas. First impressions? Spot on. It felt like stepping into someone’s lovely home, complete with a wood-burner and views over rolling fields.

Settled in with a cuppa, we decided to chuck the guidebooks and just explore, letting the lanes lead us wherever. That’s the magic of this part of East Devon – it’s riddled with hidden gems if you’re daft enough to get lost, which we did straight away. First wander took us down a unmarked bridleway from the garden gate, stumbling upon a wildflower meadow that sloped down to a babbling brook. No crowds, just bees buzzing and the sun dappling the water. We picnicked there with pasties from a nearby farm shop, feeling like we’d gatecrashed paradise. “This is what holidays are for,” I thought, a bit of a reflective pause hitting me as I watched a dragonfly skim the surface. Back home, life’s all rush and screens – out here, it’s about these quiet moments that make you appreciate the simple stuff.

Next day, another wrong turn (why do I never learn?) led us to a tucked-away spot by the River Axe, maybe a mile from the cottage. We parked up and followed a faint path through ancient woodland, emerging at a pebbly beach you’d swear no one else knew about. Seals bobbed in the estuary, and we skimmed stones for ages, the only sounds waves and our daft banter. Light humour ensued when I slipped on seaweed trying to pose for a photo – proper Monty Python moment, legs akimbo in the shallows. Soaked but giggling, we dried off with fish and chips from a hole-in-the-wall in the village, eaten on a driftwood log.

Evenings were for ambling back via forgotten hamlets, discovering a tiny orchard with apples you could pick for free (honestly, Devonians are saints) and a sundown viewpoint over misty valleys that stopped us in our tracks. One night, getting properly lost in the twilight, we found a dew-pond glade alive with glow-worms – pure magic, like stumbling into a fairy tale. It made me reflect gently on how we city folk miss out on this; a weekend of serendipity beat any itinerary hands down.

We left buzzing, already plotting a return. Devon’s off-the-beaten-track secrets? They’re there for the wandering.