I’ll never forget the drive up to York – rain lashing the windscreen like it had a personal grudge, and then, just past the A64, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us down a muddy farm track. Heart in mouth, we reversed out with the tyres spinning, laughing nervously as mud splattered the hubcaps. But oh, what a relief when we finally pulled up to this cosy little cottage tucked away in a quiet spot just outside the city centre. From the moment we stepped inside, with its welcoming glow and that faint smell of fresh scones from somewhere, I knew we’d struck gold. First impressions? Spot on – it felt like slipping into a favourite jumper.

Eager to explore but not wanting the usual tourist scrum, we ditched the map straight away and just wandered. York’s got that magic where you turn a corner and stumble on pure gold, especially if you let yourself get properly lost. Our first accidental gem was this tucked-away tearoom off Tanner Row – stumbled upon it after taking a wrong turn near the Minster. No queues, just mismatched china cups and the fluffiest Victoria sponge I’ve ever had. The owner, a chatty chap called Reg, reckoned hardly anyone finds it because it’s hidden behind a bookshop. We sat there for hours, people-watching locals who popped in for a natter.

Next day, we headed towards the river but veered off down some narrow snicket that didn’t look promising. Bingo – Rowntree Park! Not the flashiest spot, but what a find. Families picnicking under the willows, a little playground where we joined kids flying kites, and that glassy Ouse stretching out calm as you like. We got chatting to a dog-walker who tipped us off about a hidden boardwalk along the bank – proper off-the-grid, with herons eyeing us suspiciously. Sat there with flasks of tea from the cottage, feeling like we’d nicked a secret from the city.

The real highlight, though, was when we lost ourselves completely in the back lanes around Layerthorpe. No idea how, but we ended up at this wee community orchard – apples dangling like Christmas baubles, benches carved with wonky poetry, and a honesty box for fresh veg. Picked a bag of windfalls and turned them into a crumble back at the cottage that night. It got me thinking, doesn’t it? In the rush of life, we’re always chasing the big sights, but it’s these daft detours, the places you bumble into by mistake, that stick with you. Made me reflect on how I could do with more aimless wanders at home – less scrolling, more straying.

Winding down with a pint in a dimpled glass at a boozer we found by pure fluke near Walmgate Bar, we toasted our hidden York. That cottage was the perfect base – close enough for these serendipitous jaunts, far enough to feel like our own little bolthole. If you’re after the real York, not the postcard version, get lost. You won’t regret it.