I’ll never forget the drive down to Enniscorthy in County Wexford – we’d set off from Dublin full of that buzzy anticipation, you know, the kind where you’re already imagining cracking open a cold one in the garden. But typical me, I took a wrong turn somewhere near Gorey, thanks to a dodgy sat-nav signal cutting out in the middle of nowhere. We ended up on these narrow, winding lanes that had us laughing nervously as the car scraped a hedge or two. Half an hour later, we stumbled upon this gorgeous little ruined chapel half-buried in ivy – a proper hidden gem we’d never have found on purpose. Turns out it was some forgotten 12th-century spot, and we just sat there for ages, soaking it in before finally getting back on track.

Pulling up to the cottage on the outskirts of Enniscorthy felt like arriving home. It’s this lovely semi-detached place, wheelchair-friendly with a handy ramp, perfect for families. First impressions? Spot on. The bright sitting room with its woodburner and squashy sofas screamed cosy nights in, flowing straight into a cracking kitchen-diner that had everything we needed. Downstairs wet room and two bedrooms – one double, one twins – made it dead practical, and upstairs another double with its own en-suite. But the real star? Those front and rear gardens, where we plonked ourselves with iced teas, watching the sun dip low. Pure bliss after that faffed journey.

The magic of the week, though, was all about getting lost – properly wandering off the beaten track and unearthing Wexford’s secrets by accident. Our first sortie was meant to be a quick stroll into Enniscorthy for provisions, but we veered off down a footpath by the River Slaney and found this tucked-away wildflower meadow buzzing with butterflies. No tourists, just us and the hum of bees – we picnicked there till dusk, feeling like we’d cracked some local code.

Next day, aiming for the town centre’s castle, we took a “shortcut” that led us up into the hills behind town. Blimey, what a payoff: a serene little holy well dedicated to St. John, complete with fluttering rags tied to trees from pilgrims past. We sat on the mossy steps, sharing stories, and I had this quiet moment reflecting on how we’re all so glued to maps these days. Me, especially – always the planner, yet here I was, happiest when properly adrift.

Even a rainy afternoon pushed us further off-piste. Instead of the usual haunts, we followed a faded signpost to a hidden picnic spot by the river, where otters played in the shallows. Later, looping back via back lanes, we tripped over a family-run berry farm selling the juiciest strawberries you’ve ever tasted, straight from the patch. No fanfare, just honesty-box magic.

By week’s end, we’d barely scratched Enniscorthy’s surface – or rather, its hidden underbelly. That cottage was the perfect base for it all: comfy, unpretentious, a launchpad for serendipity. If you fancy ditching the guidebooks for some accidental adventures, Wexford’s your spot. We’re already plotting a return – sat-nav be damned.