We’d barely got the car unpacked when the sat-nav decided to send us on a wild goose chase through Mortehoe’s back lanes. One wrong turn down a single-track road, a hedge that seemed to lean in for a cuddle, and suddenly we were parked outside a cottage that looked nothing like the pictures online. Turns out we’d arrived at the right place after all, just from the back garden rather than the front door. The key was under the flowerpot exactly where the owner promised, and within minutes we were stepping into a warm, low-beamed living room that smelled faintly of woodsmoke and the sea.

First impressions were all about the light. Big sash windows let in that particular North Devon glow, the sort that makes everything look slightly softer. From the kitchen table we could just glimpse the sea between rooftops, and the five bedrooms upstairs felt generous without being grand. We dumped bags, made tea in mismatched mugs, and set off for what we thought would be a quick stroll to the beach.

Naturally we got lost. Instead of heading straight down the lane we followed a narrow footpath that ducked behind a row of whitewashed cottages. The path wound between high banks thick with foxgloves and ended at a tiny cove none of the guidebooks had mentioned. The tide was out, leaving a stretch of pale sand scattered with tiny shells and the odd piece of driftwood. We paddled, collected a few pebbles that looked prettier wet than dry, and realised we’d been gone nearly two hours without meaning to.

That accidental detour set the tone for the whole stay. Every time we tried to stick to a plan we ended up somewhere better. A morning walk meant for the coastal path took us inland along a sunken lane that opened onto a quiet field full of grazing sheep and a single bench with the best view of the bay. Lunch was supposed to be a picnic on the main beach, yet we found ourselves in a small clearing behind the dunes, eating sandwiches while a robin watched from a fence post.

By the third day we’d stopped pretending we knew where we were going. The cottage became our base for these gentle wanderings: back for a shower when the rain caught us, back again for a glass of wine on the patio once the sun reappeared. Evenings were spent with the windows open, listening to the distant hush of waves and the occasional laugh from neighbours walking home from the pub. We never did find the “official” viewpoint marked on the map, but we discovered three others that felt like ours alone.

Looking back, that first wrong turn was the best thing that could have happened. Without it we might have followed the obvious route and missed the quieter corners that made the week feel properly ours.