I’ll never forget the drive down to North Devon – sat nav insisting we were nearly there, only for us to take a wrong turn just outside Barnstaple and end up ploughing through a muddy farm track that looked more like a cow’s personal runway. Mud splattered the windscreen, and my other half was convinced we’d be sleeping in the car. But honestly, that little mishap set the tone for the whole trip: unexpected detours leading to pure magic.

We finally rocked up at this cracking holiday home tucked inside a handsome Georgian manor in the postcard-pretty village of Newton Tracey. Peaceful doesn’t even cover it – just four miles from Barnstaple, with the countryside rolling out like a green blanket. First impressions? Spot on. The place had that cosy, lived-in charm, with gardens begging for a mooch and views that made you forget the world. I was buzzing already, tea in hand, plotting our escape from the usual tourist traps.

We didn’t have grand plans – just a vague notion to explore North Devon’s wild bits. But true to form, we got gloriously lost on day one, veering off the road towards the tidal River Taw. What a find! We parked up by a quiet stretch where the water laps right up to the banks at high tide, and stumbled on this hidden picnic spot locals must use. Seagulls squawking overhead, not a soul in sight – we cracked open pasties from Barnstaple’s market (grabbed some cracking ones from the butchers there) and watched the mudflats shimmer. Felt like we’d gatecrashed nature’s private lounge.

Next day, another accidental wander took us towards that popular inn a couple of miles away. Meant to just pop in for a pint, but we missed the turn and ended up on a footpath snaking through ancient hedgerows. Emerged at a wee wildflower meadow I’d bet no guidebook mentions – butterflies everywhere, buzzards wheeling above. We picnicked there instead, laughing about how we’d somehow dodged the crowds. Later, at the inn, we got chatting to regulars over a ploughman’s; they tipped us off about a secret lane near the manor leading to a bubbling stream perfect for paddling. Off we went, trainers soaked, discovering dragonflies skimming the water like tiny helicopters.

Exmoor’s rugged edges were calling too, but we kept it local, getting lost again on a loop trail that spat us out at an old stone bridge over a burbling brook – total hidden gem, with ferns dripping like something from a Tolkien tale. No car parks, no signs, just us and the sheep eyeing us suspiciously. That’s when I had a proper moment, sitting on a mossy log: holidays like this remind me to loosen the reins. Life’s too short for maps; the best bits hide down the wrong turn.

By week’s end, we’d clocked more off-the-beaten-path spots than planned routes – a shady orchard bursting with crab apples, a forgotten viewpoint over Taw valley meadows. North Devon’s got this knack for rewarding the wanderers. If you’re after proper escape, get yourself lost around Newton Tracey. You won’t regret it.