I’ll never forget the drive down to Dorset last month – me behind the wheel of our trusty old Fiesta, Satnav chirping away like it knew best, and my other half navigating with a map app that decided to throw a wobbly just as we hit the A352. We ended up taking a wrong turn near Puddletown, looping through some narrow lanes that had hedges brushing the wing mirrors, and I swear we nearly adopted a rogue sheep that wandered out in front of us. A proper comedy of errors, but it broke the ice from our hectic London lives and had us laughing by the time we spotted the sign for Buckland Newton.

Pulling up to this luxurious Japanese-style hideaway near Alton Pancras was pure magic, though. Nestled in five acres of ancient meadows buzzing with butterflies and birdsong, it’s a proper retreat for two – think intimate one-bedroom cottage with shared Japanese gardens and a tea hut that feels like stepping into a zen dream. The anticipation built as we parked; I could already smell the fresh air and hear the rustle of leaves. First impressions? Spot on. The ambient lighting in the gardens at dusk, the chemical-free hot tub steaming away for our private evening dip – it was sumptuous without being flashy, just what we needed for a romantic unwind.

But the real joy came from ditching the map and embracing the lost-and-found vibe of Dorset’s hidden corners. That first afternoon, instead of heading straight for Dorchester’s bustle, we wandered off-piste from the cottage paths into the surrounding countryside. Got properly turned around in the meadows, following a butterfly trail that led us to a tucked-away dew pond where deer were quenching their thirst. No crowds, just us and the wildlife – felt like we’d stumbled into a secret world right on our doorstep.

Next day, a “short” stroll morphed into an epic ramble when we veered off towards Buckland Newton. Lost signal, no bother – we chanced upon a forgotten village cricket green where locals were knocking about, and a tiny pub doing the best ploughman’s I’ve had in ages. Pure serendipity. Even better was the accidental detour to Cerne Abbas, just a few miles off; we parked up and hiked a less-trodden path behind the famous chalk giant, discovering wildflower meadows and a babbling brook that wasn’t on any tourist radar. No coach parties in sight, which suited us down to the ground.

Evenings were for soaking in the hot tub under the stars, tea hut tunes drifting out, reflecting on how getting lost sharpened the senses. I caught myself thinking, mid-soak, how often we bulldoze through life with plans – this trip was a gentle nudge to let the path meander. We’d pop into the gardens for a brew, spot owls at twilight, then crash out blissfully. No Jurassic Coast jaunts for us; those off-the-beaten gems within spitting distance – the meadows, brooks, that cricket green – stole the show. Dorset’s like that: full of surprises if you stray from the script. Can’t wait to get lost there again.