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 map app that kept losing signal. We’d left Bristol mid-morning, aiming for that peaceful corner near Axminster, but halfway through, disaster struck: a wrong turn onto some narrow lane that turned into a muddy track. The car fishtailed, we laughed nervously, and suddenly we were stuck in a puddle that looked like it could swallow us whole. A friendly farmer in wellies towed us out with his tractor – classic Devon hospitality – and we arrived at the property an hour late, hearts racing but buzzing with anticipation. Would it live up to the photos? As we pulled up, the first impressions were spot on: a cosy detached cottage with a welcoming hot tub tucked away in the garden, all rustic charm and flower-filled borders. Perfect for unwinding after our little adventure.

From that moment, the holiday became all about stumbling on hidden gems by pure accident – the kind of off-the-beaten-track spots that don’t make the tourist brochures. We’d set off for a gentle walk along the River Axe, but instead of sticking to the main path, we veered off following a whim down a shaded footpath that twisted through ancient woodland. Lost? Maybe a tad, but in the best way. It spat us out at a secluded pebble beach you’d never find on Google Maps – just us, the lapping waves, and a family of seals basking on the rocks. We picnicked there with pasties from a nearby farm shop, feeling like we’d discovered our own private paradise.

The next day, another detour magic happened. Driving those winding lanes towards the coast, we missed the turn for Seaton and ended up in a forgotten valley dotted with wildflower meadows. A tiny wooden sign pointed to “local spring,” so we followed it to a crystal-clear bubbling brook where locals fill their bottles. No crowds, no cafés – just the sound of water and birdsong. We dunked our heads in for a refresh, giggling like kids, and it was one of those moments that made me pause and reflect: how often do we rush through life missing these quiet wonders right under our noses? Back at the cottage, we’d flop into the hot tub, sore feet bubbling away, toasting our serendipitous finds with local cider.

Evenings brought more accidental treasures. One night, ambling along a hedge-lined bridleway, we chanced upon a hidden orchard heavy with apples, the owner waving us over for a bagful and a chat about his cider press. Pure Devon serendipity. Our final wander took us through a labyrinth of lanes to a wild cliff-edge spot overlooking Lyme Bay, far from the car parks, where the sunset painted the sea gold. Getting lost became our holiday’s heartbeat – no grand plans, just openness to whatever lane called. It was restorative, reminding me that the best memories aren’t plotted but stumbled upon. If you’re after that, Devon’s your spot.