I’ll never forget the drive down to Shropshire last month – me behind the wheel of our trusty old estate car, sat-nav chirping away like it knew best, and my other half navigating with a map app that kept losing signal. We’d taken the scenic route from the M54, winding through those lush green hills, but about ten miles out, disaster struck: a wrong turn onto a single-track lane that narrowed into a muddy farm track. Cue a mild panic as we reversed into a hedge, laughing nervously while a farmer on a tractor waved us out with a grin. “You’re not from round here, are ya?” he chuckled. Typical me, always chasing the road less travelled, even when it leads to bramble scratches.

By the time we pulled up opposite the little church in the village, the sun was dipping low, casting this golden glow over everything. I’d been buzzing with anticipation all week – visions of cosy firesides and proper countryside peace – and it didn’t disappoint. First impressions? Spot on. It’s this cracking two-bedroom apartment spread over two floors above an award-winning country inn, with those lovely village views from the windows that make you feel properly tucked away. Newly done up, it had everything we needed: comfy beds, a kitchen that didn’t scream “holiday let”, and a balcony perfect for morning brews overlooking the rooftops.

But the real magic kicked in when we ditched the guidebooks and let serendipity take over. That first evening, after a hearty pub supper downstairs (their pies are legendary), we decided on a post-dinner wander. No map, just following a footpath that snaked behind the church. Within minutes, we’d stumbled into what felt like our own private dell – a hidden wooded hollow with a babbling brook and wild garlic everywhere. It was one of those off-the-beaten-track spots you only find by getting gloriously lost. We sat on a fallen log, feet in the water, watching the light fade. Pure bliss, and not a soul in sight.

The next day, same vibe. Aiming for a quick loop around the village, we veered off onto a bridleway marked by a wonky signpost. Ended up at this forgotten hilltop with panoramic views over the Shropshire valleys – sheep-dotted fields rolling out like a patchwork quilt, and in the distance, the faint outline of the Clee Hills. We picnicked there with cheese from the local farm shop we’d spotted by accident on the way back from our hedge mishap. Later, another “lost” ramble led us to a tucked-away orchard bursting with apple trees, where we foraged a few windfalls for crumble. Who needs tourist traps when you’ve got this?

Of course, there was a moment of gentle self-reflection as we trudged back one drizzly afternoon, boots caked in mud. Me, the eternal wanderer, realised that getting lost isn’t about mistakes – it’s how you uncover the best bits of a place. Shropshire’s full of these hidden gems if you let the paths lead you. Our stay flew by in a haze of unexpected discoveries, and driving home, I was already plotting the next detour. If you’re after proper escape, swap the motorways for the meanders – you won’t regret it.