We’d barely pulled off the main road when the satnav decided we were taking a scenic detour through someone’s back garden. One wrong turn outside Thurlestone and we were bouncing down a single-track lane that narrowed with every hedgerow until the cottage roof finally appeared over the top like a thatched lighthouse. Lower Goosewell Cottage looked exactly as the photos promised—stone walls, a wonky chimney, and a garden gate that squeaked like it was greeting us personally.

The key was waiting under a flowerpot, as promised, and the first thing that struck me was the smell: salt and woodsmoke and the faint sweetness of the last hydrangeas. We dumped the bags, made tea in mismatched mugs, and stepped straight out the back door onto a path that seemed to lead nowhere in particular. That was our mistake, or our luck, depending how you look at it.

Instead of heading down the obvious track to the beach, we followed a narrower trail that ducked behind a stone wall and promptly disappeared into bracken. Twenty minutes later we were properly lost, which in Devon usually means you’re about to find something worth the confusion. A gap in the hedge revealed a tiny cove we hadn’t seen on any map—more rock than sand, with a single bench someone had clearly dragged down years ago and never moved. We sat there with our cooling tea, watching a cormorant dry its wings on a boulder while the tide whispered in and out.

Later, still mildly disoriented, we took another wrong turning that led us to a field where three Exmoor ponies were grazing beside a half-collapsed stone barn. The sort of place that feels like it’s been waiting quietly for someone to notice it. We spent a ridiculous amount of time trying to photograph them without looking like tourists, then gave up and just stood there, listening to the wind move through the long grass.

By the time we wandered back, the light had gone golden and the cottage windows glowed like someone had already lit the lamps for us. I found myself thinking how easy it is, on holiday, to plan every hour in advance and then feel faintly disappointed when nothing surprises you. Getting properly lost on the first afternoon had done what no itinerary ever manages: it had handed us the place on its own terms.

We cooked pasta on the little electric hob, left the door open to the cooling air, and decided the rest of the week could wait. Sometimes the best thing about arriving somewhere new is realising you don’t actually know where you are yet.