We set off from home in a bit of a flap, convinced we’d left the kettle on and the cat looking decidedly unimpressed. By the time we reached the lane that wound down to 11 Bed Cottage, the satnav had given up and was politely suggesting we “turn around when possible,” which felt a tad optimistic given the single-track road and the wall of brambles either side. The funny mishap came when I confidently reversed into what looked like a generous parking spot, only to discover it was actually a shallow drainage ditch hidden by long grass; the back wheels spun for a comical second before we lurched free, scattering a pair of wood pigeons and my dignity in equal measure.

Still laughing at ourselves, we stepped inside the cottage and the sea air followed us through the open door like an old friend. From the sitting-room window we could just glimpse a sliver of the estuary glinting between the rooftops, and the faint cry of gulls drifted in on the breeze. Rather than unpack straight away we decided a quick wander might shake off the journey, so we followed a narrow footpath that seemed to lead towards the water. It promptly led us astray instead, ducking behind a row of whitewashed fishermen’s cottages and emerging onto a tiny, stony cove we hadn’t noticed on any map.

We spent the next hour pottering about that pocket-sized beach, collecting oddly shaped driftwood and watching a heron stand statue-still at the water’s edge. A little further along the same unplanned route we stumbled upon an overgrown track that climbed gently between high hedges heavy with blackberries. At the top, half-hidden by ivy, sat a wooden bench overlooking the whole sweep of the bay; someone had carved a heart and a date into the armrest, and we sat there for ages, shoes damp with dew, simply watching the light change on the water.

Later that evening, still mildly lost, we followed a different turning and found ourselves in a quiet churchyard where the gravestones leaned at friendly angles and wildflowers grew between the cracks. A local dog-walker paused to chat, pointing out a shortcut back to the cottage that took us past an old boathouse whose doors stood open to reveal a collection of brightly painted rowing boats. By the time we reached our own doorstep again, the sun was low and the cottage windows glowed warmly, as if they’d been waiting for us all along.

It struck me, as I fumbled with the slightly stiff key, how easy it is to plan every hour of a holiday and still miss the best bits entirely. Sometimes the ditch you drive into, or the path you weren’t looking for, ends up being the real discovery.