I’ll never forget the drive down to North Devon last month – a proper British summer adventure, complete with lashing rain and a sat-nav that decided to have a mid-journey meltdown. We’d set off from Bristol full of beans, dreaming of sandy beaches and cream teas, but about halfway there, the thing started directing us onto what felt like sheep tracks rather than proper roads. Cue a hilarious ten-minute detour through a muddy farm lane, where we nearly high-centred the car on a pothole. “This is it, we’re officially lost already,” I laughed to my other half, but honestly, it just amped up the excitement. By the time we rolled into Mortehoe, hearts racing a bit, the clouds were parting, and there was this gorgeous sea view peeking over the hedge. First impressions? Magic.

Our spot was a cosy apartment right in the thick of it, beachy vibes with a nod to the surf scene – perfect for us and the two daft dogs in tow. Unpacked in no time, leads on, and we were off exploring, no itinerary, just vibes. That’s when the real holiday kicked in: stumbling on North Devon’s hidden gems purely by accident. You know those guidebook spots everyone flocks to? We skipped ’em entirely, thanks to our knack for getting gloriously lost.

First wander, we veered off the main path from Woolacombe Bay – that massive stretch of golden sand you can see for miles – and ended up on a teensy clifftop trail I hadn’t even clocked on the map. Wind whipping our hair, dogs pulling like steam trains, and suddenly... there it was. A secret cove, barely a handful of pebbles and turquoise waves lapping at the edges, completely empty. No umbrellas, no chip vans, just us and the seals barking in the distance. We picnicked on pasties from a nearby farm shop (proper job, those), toes in the water, feeling like we’d nicked a private slice of paradise.

Next day, same story. Aiming for a gentle dog walk along the coast path, we took a wrong turn at a wonky signpost and tumbled into Barricane Beach – or so the locals call it. It’s this pocket-sized inlet, riddled with rock pools teeming with blennies and anemones. The kids (okay, the dogs) went feral poking about, and I spent an hour beachcombing for cowrie shells, grinning like an idiot. No crowds, just the rumble of waves and that salty tang in the air. Pure, unfiltered joy.

Of course, getting lost had its daft moments. One evening, chasing a “shortcut” back from a mooch around Mortehoe’s village green, we looped in circles past the same chestnut tree three times. Laughing our socks off, we finally stumbled on this tucked-away pub – think low ceilings, real ale, and a pint of something frothy with a pasty chaser. Hidden gem numero uno for weary wanderers.

Looking back, that’s the self-reflection bit: I’m a planner by nature, lists and all, but this trip taught me to embrace the detour. North Devon’s best bits aren’t signposted; they’re the ones you find when you let the lanes lead you. We left sunburnt, sandy, and utterly recharged, already plotting the next accidental adventure. If you’re heading that way, ditch the map – the mishaps make the memories.