I’ll never forget the drive up to Lasswade last summer – we’d rented this cosy little cottage tucked away in that pretty village, just a hop from Edinburgh’s buzz. Me and the missus piled into the car in the pouring rain, sat-nav on, cups of tea sloshing about. Then, classic me, I took a wrong turn somewhere near the bypass, ending up on a narrow lane that had us convinced we’d veered into Narnia. Fifteen minutes of gentle panic later, with the wipers working overtime, we stumbled out laughing at this gem of a spot. First impressions? Magic. The cottage was all charm – that perfect holiday hideaway vibe, welcoming us with its snug feel right by the River North Esk.

We’d been buzzing with anticipation on the journey, dreaming of Edinburgh’s Fringe vibes without the centre’s chaos. Lasswade delivered big time, feeling like our secret escape pod, only six miles from the city’s shops and festivals but worlds away. Unpacked, cuppa in hand, and we were off wandering, no real plan, which is how the best bits happen.

First hidden gem came by accident that very afternoon. Instead of heading straight into town, we followed a wee path from the cottage that snaked along the riverbank. Thought we’d just stretch our legs, but it led us to this tucked-away trout fishing spot on the North Esk – rods dipping lazily, herons eyeing us suspiciously. I’m no angler, but we watched locals pull in beauties and chatted about their secret flies. Pure bliss, miles from the tourist traps.

Next day, we decided on a “short constitutional” towards the Pentland Hills, but my dodgy sense of direction had us looping off the main track. Got properly lost in Glen Country Park – brambles tugging at trousers, sudden views popping like rewards. Stumbled on a forgotten picnic glade with benches overlooking the valley, wildflowers everywhere. Sat there with sandwiches, feeling like explorers. That’s when the self-reflection hit: I’m always rushing in life, but getting lost here forced me to slow down, breathe the heather air. Cheesy? Maybe, but true.

Kept the theme going with a meander to Hillend – meant to be quick, ended up on a back trail through the hills. Discovered this off-the-beaten-path tubing run, empty save for a family of otters (or were they just big rats? Who knows). Laughed our socks off sliding down on inners, mud-splattered and alive. No queues, no selfies – just us and the slopes.

Even a “shortcut” to the city veered us into a quiet corner of the Pentlands with a babbling burn and ancient drystone walls. Picked blackberries till our fingers were purple, pondering how such spots hide in plain sight. Back at the cottage each night, knackered but buzzing, we’d toast to serendipity over fish and chips.

Lasswade’s cottage was the ideal base for these accidental adventures – close enough for Edinburgh’s Tattoo lights if we fancied, but we preferred our lost-world finds. If you’re after the Fringe without the fray, or hills without the hordes, get yourself lost here. You won’t regret it.