I’ll never forget the drive down to Combe Martin last summer – 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 sea views, but about halfway through Exmoor, disaster struck. A cheeky sheep decided to play chicken with us on a narrow lane, forcing me into an emergency three-point turn that ended with us wedged against a hedge. “Great start,” I muttered, laughing it off as we disentangled ourselves, covered in bits of bramble. Still, by the time we trundled into the village, the sun was dipping low, casting that golden glow over the cliffs, and my heart lifted. What a spot – this cosy little cottage, all quaint and tucked away, with its welcoming vibe that screamed “kick back and relax.”

First impressions? Spot on. We dumped the bags, cracked open a bottle of local cider, and just soaked it in from the garden – the sea shimmering in the distance, gulls wheeling overhead. No crowds, no fuss; it felt like our own private slice of Devon. But the real magic kicked off the next morning when we decided to wander without a plan. Armed with walking boots and a vague idea of the coastal path, we veered off the main track by accident, following a faint footpath that snaked down towards the Hangman cliffs. Before we knew it, we were properly lost in the best possible way – no signal, no tourists, just us scrambling over rocks and peering into hidden coves that don’t even make the guidebooks.

One gem was this tiny pebble beach we stumbled upon, completely deserted save for a family of seals basking on the rocks offshore. We picnicked there with pasties from the village bakery, toes in the water, feeling like we’d gatecrashed paradise. Another day, a wrong turn up a wooded valley led us to a wildflower meadow bursting with butterflies – the kind of place you’d miss if you stuck to the roads. We got so turned around chasing a stream that looped back on itself, we laughed till our sides hurt, me admitting I’ve always been rubbish at directions. It’s funny, isn’t it? In the rush of everyday life back home, I’m all about lists and efficiency, but getting lost here forced me to slow down, breathe, and actually notice the little things – like the way the ferns rustle or the unexpected burst of heather round a corner.

Evenings were for ambling back to the cottage, cooking up a storm with fresh fish from Combe Martin’s harbourside stalls, and plotting the next daft detour. We found a secluded viewpoint overlooking Hunter’s Inn bay by pure fluke, perfect for sunset gins, and a secret packhorse bridge hidden in the woods where time just stopped. No big attractions, no Instagram hordes – just those off-the-beaten-track treasures that make Devon feel endlessly surprising. By the time we packed up, I was already plotting a return, mishap sheep and all. If you’re after proper escape, ditch the map and let the lanes lead you astray. You won’t regret it.