I’ll never forget the drive up to East Ayton last month – sat nav decided to have a right old tantrum just as we hit the A170, sending us on a wild detour through some narrow lanes that had me gripping the wheel like it was a lifeline. We ended up in a muddy layby, arguing over whether to trust the phone or just follow the signs to Scarborough. A classic family holiday start, innit? But as we finally rolled into the village, hearts lifted – there it was, this gorgeous double-fronted cottage with views straight out to Ayton Castle ruins glowing in the late sun. First impressions? Pure magic. Enclosed garden out back, hot tub bubbling away like it was waiting just for us, and the River Derwent practically lapping at the doorstep. Felt like we’d stumbled into a proper hidden nook, miles from the Scarborough crowds.

We’d come for a quiet escape in the North York Moors, pet-friendly spot for the dog and all, but it was the accidental discoveries that turned it into the trip of a lifetime. First morning, after a fry-up in the well-kitted kitchen – dishwasher doing the heavy lifting, thank goodness – we fancied a riverside wander. Boot room came in clutch for muddy paws and wellies. Meant to head to the local shops down the hill, but we took a wrong turn at the bridge and ended up following a faint path along the Derwent. Blimey, what a find! Tucked away meadows with kingfishers darting about – no one else around, just the rush of water and cowslips nodding in the breeze. We picnicked on a sun-warmed rock, feeling like explorers who’d cracked some secret code.

That set the tone: getting lost became our superpower. Afternoon, we aimed for the mini-supermarket and post office at the fuel station – grabbed milk and papers, spotted the chemist and chippy nearby – but veered off towards Forge Valley instead. Hour later, we’re in this off-the-beaten-track dell, ancient trees twisting overhead, a babbling brook you could hear from the cottage garden. Proper fairy-tale stuff, with bluebells carpeting the floor even in summer. Laughed our heads off when the dog chased a butterfly into a bramble patch – cue boot room heroics again.

Evenings were bliss: woodburner crackling in the sitting room, telly on low while we scoffed fish and chips from Walkers, or nipped to one of the three pubs down the road for a pint in their beer gardens. BBQ out back one night, then hot tub under the stars – views to the castle silhouette, chatting about the day’s gems. One dusk, trying to loop back from a pub, we lost the path and tumbled onto this secluded viewpoint over the valley. Sunset painting the moors gold, not a soul in sight. Sat there gobsmacked, mugs of tea in hand.

Reflecting now, back home with the washing machine humming (miss that downstairs one!), I reckon that’s the joy of these spots – no itinerary, just letting the lanes lead you. We dodged the Scarborough hordes, unearthed pockets of North Yorkshire magic by sheer fluke. Made me realise I’m a bit of a wanderer at heart, happiest when a bit adrift. If you’re after that proper getaway, hunt out a village bolthole like this. You won’t regret it – just don’t let the sat nav boss you about.