We’d only just pulled into the lane behind Red House when the sat-nav decided we’d arrived in a field. A polite female voice announced “you have reached your destination,” while we sat staring at a hedge and a rather unimpressed sheep. After a quick three-point turn that nearly took out the wheelie bin, we finally spotted the pale stone cottage tucked just off the road, barely a five-minute stroll from the shingle beach at Charmouth.

The front door key was exactly where the owner had promised, under a terracotta pot that looked as though it had been collecting rain since the Jurassic period. Inside, the rooms smelled faintly of woodsmoke and the sea, and from the upstairs window we could already see families dragging bodyboards down the lane. We dumped the bags, made tea in mismatched mugs, and set off for what we told ourselves would be “just a quick look at the beach.”

Naturally we turned the wrong way. Instead of heading straight down to the pebbles we followed a narrow footpath that climbed behind the houses, thinking it might loop back. Twenty minutes later we were halfway up a brambly slope with no sign of the sea, only the occasional glimpse of red cliffs through the trees. A handwritten sign half-hidden by ivy pointed to “Westhill Viewpoint,” so we kept going, mostly because turning back felt like admitting defeat.

At the top the view opened out over Lyme Bay, the water glinting like someone had scattered sequins. We weren’t alone for long; a couple of locals with a terrier appeared, equally surprised to see us. They pointed out a tiny cove you could only reach at low tide, accessible by a scramble down what looked like a goat track. We thanked them, promised we wouldn’t attempt it in flip-flops, and carried on along the ridge, discovering a bench someone had clearly built from driftwood and cable ties. It wobbled, but the tea we’d brought in a flask tasted better for the effort.

By the time we wandered back, the tide had crept in and the beach was busy with rock-poolers. We stopped at the little honesty-box stall beside the car park for two still-warm pasties, then sat on the wall outside Red House eating them while seagulls performed low-level reconnaissance. It struck me, watching a toddler chase a crab with a bucket, how easy it is to over-plan these trips. We’d meant to tick off the usual sights, yet here we were, pleasantly lost and perfectly content with a hedge-side sheep, a wonky bench, and a path we hadn’t known existed an hour earlier.