I’ll never forget the drive down to Devon last summer – sat nav screaming at me in that posh voice while I wrestled with a puncture just past Exeter. Turned out I’d clipped the kerb faffing with the radio, but after a quick roadside patch-up (cheers to that passing farmer with his toolkit), we were back on the A38, hearts racing a bit but buzzing with that holiday anticipation. Windows down, sea air sneaking in, and the promise of South Devon’s coast just ahead. By the time we trundled into those narrow lanes near Hope Cove, the stress melted away – first glimpse of the adorable cottage perched with those sea views? Pure magic. Compact, cosy, with a garden that felt like our own little secret nook.

We’d booked it for the peace, but it was the getting-lost moments that turned it into the trip of a lifetime. First morning, I fancied a wander and took a wrong turn down a barely-there footpath behind the cottage. No maps, just me, the dog, and a hunch. Stumbled onto this hidden cove – not the main Hope Cove beach everyone flocks to, but a pebbly inlet tucked away, where the waves crash just right for skimming stones. Sat there for hours, no one else in sight, feeling like I’d nicked a bit of Devon all to myself. Laughed at how I’d spent years chasing Instagram hotspots, only to find gold by accident.

Next day, same story. Set off for a pub lunch in the village, but missed the sign and ended up on a cliff-top trail that twisted into nowhere. Proper off-the-beaten-track stuff – wildflowers everywhere, gulls wheeling overhead, and suddenly this abandoned WWII lookout post, half-swallowed by brambles. Clambered up for the view: endless blue, the odd fishing boat bobbing below. We picnicked there instead, cheese rolls from the local shop, wind whipping our hair. Back at the cottage, we fired up the BBQ, swapped stories, and I had one of those quiet moments – you know, reflecting on how life’s best bits often come from ditching the plan. Me, the eternal over-organiser, finally getting it.

Wandered further afield on foot the next afternoon, looping through overgrown lanes that spat us out at a freshwater stream trickling into the sea. Kids splashed about (well, our mates’ little ones), building pebble dams while we hunted for fossils in the rocks – proper amateur geologists. No crowds, no coach parties, just that raw Devon charm. Evenings were for slow strolls back as the sun dipped, picking blackberries that tasted like summer itself.

It’s funny, innit? We could’ve stuck to the tourist trail – Salcombe’s fancy shops or Bigbury’s sands are grand, but they’re barely a couple of miles off. Nah, this holiday was all about those serendipitous detours, the hidden gems you only find by getting properly lost. Left feeling recharged, with a pocketful of shells and a resolve to trust the wander more often. Devon, you sneaky beauty – we’ll be back for more.