I’ll never forget the drive down to Church Stretton last month – me behind the wheel of our trusty old estate car, sat-nav chirping away like it owned the road, and my other half navigating with a map app that kept losing signal. We’d planned a proper getaway to this cracking farmhouse we’d booked, the sort with cosy rooms and a big garden that promised peace and quiet. But about 20 miles out, disaster struck: a rogue sheep decided to play chicken with us on a narrow lane, forcing me into an emergency swerve that left us wedged in a muddy ditch. Cue 20 minutes of me muttering apologies while we waited for the farmer to tow us out with his tractor. Laugh or cry? We chose laugh, and arrived just as the sun dipped low, buzzing with that mix of relief and excitement.

First impressions? Spot on. The farmhouse sat there all welcoming, with its classic Shropshire charm – think flower-filled borders and a gravel drive crunching underfoot. We dumped the bags, cracked open a bottle of local cider, and just soaked it in. No chain hotels for us; this was proper rural bliss.

The real magic kicked off the next morning when we set out for a wander, no itinerary, just fancying a bit of fresh air on the Long Mynd. We missed the main car park – typical us – and ended up on a tiny unmarked track that led to this hidden gem: a tucked-away pond shimmering like glass, alive with dragonflies and not a soul in sight. We picnicked there for hours, feet dangling in the water, feeling like we’d stumbled on Narnia. Who needs signposts when getting lost pays off like that?

That set the tone. One afternoon, aiming for Carding Mill Valley (which was lovely, don’t get me wrong), we veered off down a bridleway by accident and found ourselves in a secret hollow with wild ponies grazing knee-high in heather. It was one of those moments where you pinch yourself – pure, unspoiled Shropshire, the kind of spot guidebooks skip because it’s too good to share. We watched the sun set from there, thermos of tea in hand, and I had a quiet think: how often do we rush through life glued to screens and schedules? This holiday was reminding me to embrace the detours.

Next day, another happy accident. A wrong turn off the A49 took us to a minuscule hamlet called All Stretton, where we discovered a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it tearoom run by a cheery couple serving the fluffiest scones with clotted cream from their own farm. Buried at the end of a lane, it felt like our private find. From there, a footpath looped us up to a lesser-known viewpoint overlooking the valley – mist rolling in, buzzards circling – and we got properly lost in the best way, scrambling back just as dusk fell.

By the end of the week, we’d clocked more off-the-beaten-path treasures than planned hikes: a forgotten dew pond near the farm, a wildflower meadow buzzing with bees, even a shady dell perfect for reading. Sure, we could’ve stuck to the tourist trails, but those serendipitous wrong turns made it unforgettable. If you’re after Shropshire’s soul, ditch the map and let the lanes lead you. We drove home grinning, already plotting the next mishap.