We set off from Barnstaple on a grey Tuesday morning with the satnav promising a quick hop to Westward Ho!, yet somehow ended up on a single-track lane that narrowed until the hedges brushed both wing mirrors. A tractor appeared around the bend and we had to reverse into a muddy gateway, laughing as the dog in the back seat barked encouragement. By the time we finally swung into the gravel drive of the little three-bed cottage, the sun had broken through and the sea was glinting just beyond the dunes.

The cottage itself felt instantly welcoming: pale blue shutters, a slate doorstep worn smooth by years of sandy feet, and the faint smell of woodsmoke drifting from next door’s chimney. We dumped our bags in the hallway and, rather than unpacking straight away, decided to stretch our legs with what we thought would be a five-minute wander to the beach path. Instead we took a wrong turn past the allotments and found ourselves on a narrow, overgrown track that wound between brambles and tall grasses. Half an hour later we emerged onto a tiny cove we’d never heard of, tucked between two low cliffs with only a handful of locals and their dogs. The tide was out, revealing rock pools that the children immediately began to explore while I sat on a smooth boulder and watched a cormorant dive for its lunch.

That accidental detour set the tone for the whole stay. Every morning we’d head out with no real plan, following footpaths that seemed to lead nowhere until they suddenly opened onto hidden viewpoints or quiet stretches of sand. One afternoon we followed a sign for “private access” that turned out to be a permissive path across farmland, leading us to a sheltered hollow where blackberries grew wild along the hedge. We picked enough for a crumble and ate them warm from the sun while a kestrel hovered overhead. Another evening we got properly lost on the way back from the shops and discovered a tiny pub garden hidden behind a row of terraced houses, where the landlord served the best crab sandwiches we’d tasted all week.

By the third day we’d stopped consulting maps altogether. The cottage became our base for these small adventures: we’d return sandy and slightly windswept, kick off our shoes in the porch, and compare notes on whichever new corner of the coastline we’d stumbled across. I found myself thinking how easy it is, when you’re not chasing the obvious sights, to notice the quiet details—the way the light changes on the dunes at dusk, the sound of the waves through an open bedroom window, the feeling of having the place almost to yourself.

On our last morning we took one final wrong turn, this time along the old railway track that skirts the edge of Northam Burrows. We ended up at a bench overlooking the estuary, watching the tide creep in while a heron stood motionless in the shallows. It felt like the perfect, unplanned end to a week of happy detours. As we headed back to the cottage to pack, I realised the best part of the holiday hadn’t been the cottage itself, lovely as it was, but the way getting lost had shown us corners of North Devon we’d never have found otherwise.