I’ll never forget the drive down to West Bay – sat nav said it’d be a breeze from the Midlands, but no, some daft roadworks had us crawling along the A35 like we were in a funeral procession. We took a wrong turn somewhere near Bridport, ended up on a narrow lane that looked more like a sheep track, and I’m convinced we invented a new shortcut through a farmer’s field. Laughing our heads off by the time we arrived, though, covered in crisps from the snack explosion in the passenger footwell.

Pulling up to the apartment, my heart did a little flip – those harbour views hit you right away, with the sea sparkling like it was showing off just for us. It’s one of those cosy spots tucked into the village, all welcoming with its balcony begging for a cuppa and a gawp at the fishing boats chugging in and out. First impressions? Spot on. We dumped the bags and cracked open a bottle of fizz, toasting to ditching the motorway madness.

But the real magic kicked off when we decided to wander without a plan – no maps, just trainers and curiosity. West Bay’s got that Broadchurch vibe if you’re into telly, but we veered off the main drag straight away, stumbling on this hidden cove you’d miss if you blinked. Tucked behind Hive Beach, it’s a pebbly secret reached by scrambling down a scrubby path we found by accident after getting lost on the South West Coast Path. Waves crashing, not a soul in sight – we felt like proper explorers, me slipping on seaweed and landing on my bum for a giggle. Proper Dorset comedy gold.

Next day, same vibe: aimed for a pub lunch but took a detour through the lanes towards the cliffs. Ended up in this off-the-beaten-track spot near the harbour – a tiny shack selling the freshest crab sandwiches from the morning’s catch, run by a bloke who looked like he’d been there since Noah’s ark. No tourists, just locals nattering about the tides. We perched on driftwood benches, scoffing our faces, watching seals bob about like they owned the place.

Wandered further inland one afternoon, chasing a footpath sign that promised nothing but delivered a gem: a wildflower meadow hidden from the main paths, buzzing with butterflies and overlooking the bay. Got properly lost weaving through gorse bushes, phones on zero signal, but it was brilliant – forced us to chat properly, no distractions. Sat there reflecting on how I’m always rushing about back home; out here, getting turned around feels like the point. Found our way back via a sheep that basically led us to a stile, the cheeky thing.

Evenings were balcony bliss, but those accidental finds – the forgotten WWII lookout we clambered into for sunset, or the smuggling cave mouth glimpsed at low tide – made it unforgettable. West Bay’s gateway to the Jurassic Coast, sure, but it’s the getting-lost treasures that hooked us. Can’t wait to go back and lose ourselves all over again.