We’d barely left the M5 when the satnav decided to have a proper sulk, rerouting us down a lane so narrow our wing mirrors brushed the hedgerows. By the time we finally bumped into Salcombe and found Seafern House tucked behind a whitewashed wall, the boot was half-open, a rogue flip-flop had escaped onto the pavement, and we were both laughing like idiots. The cottage itself looked exactly like the photos promised—pale stone, blue shutters, a little terrace catching the late sun—but we barely had time to drop the bags before the sea air tugged us straight back out again.

We’d meant to unpack properly and maybe locate the nearest shop, yet somehow we wandered past the harbour and kept going, following a footpath that wasn’t on any of the maps we’d glanced at earlier. It climbed between bracken and low stone walls until the town disappeared and all we could hear was gulls and our own breathing. Half an hour later we were standing on a sliver of shingle we hadn’t known existed, watching a seal pop its head up between the rocks like it was checking we’d arrived safely. We stayed until the light turned that soft Devon gold, then realised we had no idea how to get back.

Retracing our steps proved optimistic. Instead we stumbled onto another trail that dipped through woodland and spat us out beside a tiny freshwater stream running straight onto the beach. The water was shockingly cold on bare feet, but we paddled anyway, laughing at how quickly a simple walk had turned into a full-scale expedition. By the time we reached Seafern House again the kitchen clock said nearly nine, the fridge was still empty, and neither of us minded in the slightest.

That first evening set the tone for the whole stay. Every morning we’d set off with the vague intention of finding a café and end up somewhere else entirely—a hidden cove reached only at low tide, a bench overlooking nothing but sky and water, a field gate that led to a path nobody else seemed to use. The cottage became our reliable base rather than the destination; its little terrace was perfect for morning coffee once we finally made it home, shoes sandy and pockets full of shells we’d collected without meaning to.

Looking back, the best part wasn’t the dramatic coastline or even the cottage’s cosy rooms, but how easy it was to get properly lost within five minutes of leaving the front door. I’d gone down there expecting a tidy, organised break and instead found myself grateful for every wrong turn.