I’ll never forget the drive up to Portrush – or rather, the near-disaster that kicked off my holiday. We’d piled into the car in Belfast, full of sandwiches and high spirits, only for the sat-nav to chuck a wobbly just past Coleraine. It sent us down a winding single-track lane that looked like it hadn’t seen tarmac since the Troubles, complete with a sheep blockade that had us honking like eejits. A quick reverse and a detour later, we rolled up to this gorgeous single-storey cottage on the countryside edge of Portstewart, hearts racing but grinning like fools. From the off-road parking spot, it was love at first sight – that open-plan living space with its green furnishings and limestone floor just screaming cosy getaway, French doors flung wide to let in the sea breeze. Close to the beach and a couple of cracking local pubs, it felt like we’d stumbled on a proper hidden gem.

Anticipation had been building all week – visions of crashing waves and fish suppers – but the reality? Even better. We dumped the bags and headed out, no real plan, which is how the best discoveries happen. First mishap turned triumph: aiming for Portrush’s main beach, we took a wrong turn onto a dirt track and ended up at a secluded cove near the edge of Portstewart, where the sand dunes hid a tiny beach café serving the creamiest seafood chowder I’ve ever had. No crowds, just us, a few dog-walkers, and seals bobbing offshore. Proper off-the-beaten-track magic.

The next day, we embraced the getting-lost ethos fully. A wander towards the beach turned into a hike along forgotten coastal paths, unearthing a wee harbour tucked away from the tourist trail. Fishermen mending nets, fresh crab straight from the pots – we chatted with an old-timer who pointed us to a hidden cave you could only spot at low tide. Sat there with pasties from a nearby van, waves lapping, it was pure bliss. Back at the cottage, we cracked open a bottle from one of those pubs down the road – nothing fancy, just good craic and a wood-burner flickering away.

Our final full day? More accidental brilliance. Trying to find the main drag in Portstewart, we veered off into the rolling fields behind, stumbling on an old smugglers’ path that looped back to a wildflower meadow with views over the Atlantic. Picnicked there with cheese from the local deli, watching gannets dive-bomb the sea. It got me reflecting, mid-bite: how often do we chase the big Instagram spots and miss these quiet wonders right under our noses? Me, always the planner, learned to let go – getting lost isn’t a faff, it’s the point.

Portrush and its surrounds are full of these secrets if you stray off the path. That cottage was the perfect base – snug, sunny, and seconds from it all. If you’re after a bolthole where mishaps lead to memories, this is it. Can’t wait to go back and lose myself again.