I’ll never forget the drive down to Wells – one of those classic British road trips where everything’s going swimmingly until it isn’t. We’d left Bristol in high spirits, me at the wheel with the sat-nav chirping away, dreaming of cream teas and rolling hills. But halfway through some winding lane near Cheddar, the thing decided to throw a wobbly and sent us on a detour through what felt like a farmer’s private driveway. Mud splattered the windscreen, and I was convinced we’d end up in the next county. A quick reverse and a sheepish laugh later, we were back on track, arriving at our fourth-floor corner apartment just as the sun dipped behind the Mendip Hills.

Stepping inside, I was chuffed to bits. It was this light and airy contemporary spot in a private complex, a stone’s throw from Wells’ centre – England’s smallest city, but don’t let that fool you, it punches way above its weight. Spacious rooms, tasteful furnishings, two comfy bedrooms (one with an en-suite, thank goodness after that drive), and a dual-aspect sitting room with cracking views across the rooftops to the cathedral and those lush hills. From the dining area, you could watch the day unfold over a cuppa. Perfect for our little family get-together, and walking distance to everything meant no faffing about with parking.

What turned this into a proper adventure, though, was how we kept stumbling on hidden gems by pure accident – or what I like to call ‘expertly getting lost’. First morning, aiming for the market square’s buzz with its stalls of local cheeses and fresh bread, we took a wrong turn down a narrow alley off Sadler Street. Bam – there’s this tucked-away tearoom called The Walled Garden, hidden behind high hedges in what used to be a bishop’s orchard. Tiny tables, homemade scones with clotted cream that melted in your mouth, and not a tourist in sight. We spent an hour there, chatting with the owner about her secret recipe, feeling like locals.

Later that day, wandering back via the cathedral close (stunning, but we skipped the queues), we veered off the path towards the Vicars’ Close – that postcard-perfect row of medieval houses. But instead of sticking to the main drag, we ducked through a side gate and found ourselves in a quiet community garden, bursting with wildflowers and buzzing bees. No signs, no maps – just a bench where we picnicked on pasties from a hole-in-the-wall baker we’d spotted by chance. Pure magic, and miles from the coach parties.

The real highlight came on a misty afternoon hike. We meant to head straight up to the Mendips for those panoramic views, but a dodgy signpost had us veering off into Ebbor Gorge. What a find! This narrow, fern-filled ravine felt like stepping into a secret world – dripping ferns, unexpected waterfalls after a shower, and not a soul around. We clambered over rocks, got properly mucky, and emerged laughing at the top with vistas that made you forget the world. I sat there a bit, reflecting on how life’s best bits often come from not knowing where you’re going. Me, the eternal planner, finally loosening up.

Evenings were for pottering back to the apartment, cooking up a storm in that airy kitchen, glass of Somerset cider in hand, gazing at the twinkling cathedral lights. Wells has all the indie shops, cosy pubs like The Crown for a pint of ale, and restaurants tucked in the lanes – we hit a gem called Good Earth by accident one night, devouring veggie curries that rivalled anything in London. No grand itinerary, just serendipity. If you’re after a holiday where getting lost leads to the best stories, this is your spot. We’re already plotting a return.