I’ll never forget the drive down to Weymouth – we’d set off from Bristol full of beans, sandwiches packed and the sat-nav chirping away happily. Then, halfway through, some daft roadworks sign snuck up on us, and we took a wrong turn onto a narrow lane that had us convinced we were starring in our own episode of The Great British Escape. Half an hour later, after a few choice words and a U-turn that nearly clipped a hedge, we were back on track, laughing about it. By the time we rolled into town, the sun was dipping low over the sea, and my heart did a little flip – that classic anticipation of arriving somewhere special.

Pulling up to this cracking second-floor apartment right on the seafront, I was chuffed to bits. You pop in from the esplanade, huff up the stairs (good for the legs, eh?), and there it is: a proper cosy one-bedroom spot, all renovated to a high standard with plush furniture and those jaw-dropping views over the beach and esplanade. The king-size bed in the bedroom looks out over the town skyline – perfect for a lazy lie-in – and there’s a smart bathroom with a bath and shower, plus a washing machine in the hallway cupboard for any sandy beach gear. First impressions? Spot on. It felt like our little seaside haven, just begging to be explored.

But here’s the thing – Weymouth’s got its obvious draws like the bustling beach and Nothe Fort, but I’m all about those hidden gems you stumble on when you let yourself get properly lost. That first afternoon, instead of heading straight to the arcades, we wandered off the esplanade down a side path near the harbour, away from the donkey rides and ice cream queues. Ended up at this tucked-away pebble beach called Greenhill, where locals were crabbing off the rocks and the water was so clear you could spot the wee fish darting about. No crowds, just us, a thermos of tea, and the gentle lap of waves. Pure magic, that.

Next day, we took a wrong turn (again – it’s becoming a theme) while ambling towards the town bridge, and found ourselves on a footpath snaking behind some old fishermen’s cottages. It led to a secret cove I’d never heard of – Bowleaze, I think it’s called – with smugglers’ steps cut into the cliffs and rock pools teeming with anemones. We spent hours poking about, me slipping on seaweed like a right clown and emerging covered in sand, giggling like kids. Later, getting lost again near Radipole Lake, we chanced on a nature reserve path where kingfishers flashed blue overhead and herons stood statue-still. Sat there with our picnic, watching the world go by, feeling miles from anywhere.

Reflecting on it now, that’s the joy of these stays, isn’t it? You rock up with a plan, but the best bits come from ditching the map and embracing the wander. Weymouth’s seafront pad gave us the perfect base to do just that – views to wake up to, space to crash, and all those accidental discoveries that make you feel like you’ve unlocked a secret side of the place. If you’re after a holiday that’s more meander than marathon, this is your spot. We’re already plotting a return.