I’ll never forget the drive down to Ilfracombe – a proper faff, really. We’d set off from Bristol full of beans, sandwiches packed and podcasts queued up, but halfway through the motorway crawl turned into a nightmare when the sat-nav decided to chuck a wobbly and sent us down some tiny B-road that barely qualified as tarmac. Branches scraping the roof, hedges closing in like a horror film, and me swearing I’d never trust tech again. But honestly, that little mishap was the best thing that happened. It forced us off the main drag, and by the time we wound our way into town, hearts racing a bit, we were buzzing with anticipation. What if this place was even better than the pics?

Pulling up to the second-floor apartment on the cliffs, my jaw dropped. Perched right on the edge with these massive sea views from the bay window – it looked like something out of a posh magazine. We couldn’t wait to dump the bags and flop onto that chaise lounge, blanket in lap, listening to the waves crashing way below. First impressions? Spot on. The open-plan living space with its corner sofa and Smart TV felt like home straight away, and that Nespresso machine in the sleek kitchen? Game-changer after our road saga.

But the real magic kicked off the next morning when we decided to ditch the obvious tourist traps – you know, the usual harbour selfies – and just wander. No maps, no plans, proper getting-lost vibes. We stumbled down a cliff path that wasn’t even signposted properly, and blimey, it led to this hidden cove tucked away from the crowds. Tunnels carved by the sea, waves thundering in, and not a soul in sight. We spent hours paddling in rock pools, spotting crabs the size of my hand, feeling like we’d nicked a secret from the locals. Lunch was fish and chips from a takeaway shack we found by accident near the harbour – greasy, perfect, eaten on a bench overlooking the water.

Next day, same drill: aimless stroll up the hills behind town. Lost ourselves in a network of footpaths that twisted through brambly lanes, emerging at this overlooked viewpoint where the coastline stretched out forever. Picnicked on pasties from a no-frills bakery we’d passed by fluke – proper Cornish jobbies, steaming hot. Laughed our heads off when we realised we’d looped back via a sheep field, covered in mud like a pair of daft kids. Back at the flat, we’d collapse on the king-size bed in the master, en-suite all steamy from a bath, or pile into the twin room for a lazy read under the light.

It got me thinking, didn’t it? In the rush of life, we’re always chasing the big highlights, but it’s these accidental detours – the hidden gems you only find by going off-piste – that stick. That week in North Devon, pottering about Ilfracombe’s back lanes, discovering empty beaches and quiet pubs with the best cider, recharged me more than any itinerary ever could. If you’re after that proper escape, get yourself lost here. You won’t regret it.