I’ll never forget the drive down to Wexford – we’d piled into the car in Dublin full of that giddy holiday buzz, sandwiches packed and the sat-nav promising a smooth two-hour jaunt. But oh no, typical us, we missed the turn for the N11 and ended up on some winding back lane that spat us out in the middle of nowhere, arguing over whose fault it was. A classic family squabble, but honestly, it set the tone for the trip: getting gloriously lost and stumbling on hidden gems.

Finally rolling up to the bungalow just half a mile from Carne Beach, I let out a massive sigh of relief. From the road, it was all open fields stretching out like a green carpet towards the sea – proper Irish postcard stuff. We’d been anticipating this spot for weeks, and the first impressions didn’t disappoint: a detached, minimalist haven with sea views peeking through, an enclosed garden begging for lazy afternoons, and that calm, uncluttered vibe inside. No fuss, just cosy sofas and a lounge screaming for board games or a classic film night. Perfect for us lot – me, the other half, and the two kids who’d already claimed the garden as their kingdom.

The real magic kicked off the next morning when we decided to “explore” without a plan. Aiming for Carne Beach, we veered off the path by accident and found this tucked-away cove no bigger than a football pitch, fringed with dunes and not a soul in sight. We spent hours poking around rock pools, the kids shrieking with delight at tiny crabs scuttling about. Felt like we’d gatecrashed someone’s secret paradise – Wexford’s got these little pockets everywhere if you’re daft enough to wander.

Next day, same story. Thought we’d head to the beach proper, but a wrong turn down a narrow boreen led us to Raven Point, this wild, windswept headland maybe a couple of miles up. Seals lounging on the rocks below, gorse buzzing with bees, and not a tourist in sight. We picnicked there, wind whipping our hair, laughing at how we’d “accidentally” bagged the best view in County Wexford. I had a proper moment then, sitting on a rug with a cuppa, watching the waves crash. Holidays like this make you realise how daft it is to stick to the map – life’s too short for signposted paths, right? Gentle nudge to myself: embrace the detours more often.

Evenings back at the bungalow were bliss. We’d fire up the barbecue in the garden, recounting our off-the-beaten-track finds over fish and chips from the local chipper – nothing fancy, but those crispy battered cod were spot on. One night, we got lost again on a dusk walk, ending up at this forgotten Martello tower ruin half-hidden by brambles. Kids pretended it was a pirate fort; we adults cracked open a sneaky Guinness and watched the sun dip into the sea.

By the end of the week, we’d barely scratched the surface of the usual spots – no Hook Lighthouse or big towns for us. Just serendipitous discoveries: a wildflower meadow bursting with colour, a pebbly strand where we skimmed stones for hours, and that one accidental loop through sleepy farmland that looped us back with blackberries for dessert. Wexford’s wild coast is made for this – get lost, find treasure. Can’t wait to go back and lose ourselves all over again.