I’ll never forget the drive up to the Scottish Borders last month – satnav on, tea thermos in hand, and me feeling all smug about escaping the daily grind for a proper holiday. But about 20 miles in, just past Selkirk, I took a wrong turn onto some narrow back lane because I got distracted fiddling with the radio. Next thing, we’re bumping along a single-track road with sheep eyeing us suspiciously from the verges, and the car’s low-fuel light blinking like it’s mocking me. A quick reverse manoeuvre (with a bit of sheep-herding panic) got us back on track, but honestly, that little mishap set the tone – this trip was going to be about embracing the unexpected, the hidden corners you stumble upon when you least expect it.

Pulling up to the property, my heart did a little flip of anticipation. Tucked into a working sheep farm with those rolling Minto Hills stretching out like a painting, it was even better than the photos. This striking single-storey retreat, all cosy and welcoming for up to eight of us (plus the dog and even the horses), had me grinning from ear to ear. Stepping inside to that bright open-plan living space felt like a hug – the kitchen sorted with a coffee maker for my dawn rituals and a dishwasher to banish the washing-up blues. First impressions? Spot on. We dumped the bags, cracked open a bottle of Borders ale, and just soaked in the views from the windows.

The real magic, though, kicked off the next morning when we decided to ditch the main roads and just drive. No map, no plan – proper getting-lost territory. We veered off towards Denholm, a tiny village we’d never heard of, and found ourselves parked by a crumbling old kirkyard overgrown with wildflowers. Wandering among the weathered headstones, we picnicked on cheese from the local farm shop (nabbed en route) and watched lambs frolic – pure, accidental bliss. Later that day, a wrong turn down a farm track led to a forgotten picnic spot by the Teviot River, where the water babbled over pebbles and nobody else was in sight. I sat there, feet dangling in the chill flow, thinking how daft it is that we city folk chase Instagram hotspots when these off-the-beaten gems are right here, quiet and waiting.

One evening, aiming for a quick walk near Minto, we lost the path entirely in the heather and ended up at a hidden bothy – one of those old shepherd huts half-buried in the hillside. Inside, a simple bench and a visitor book full of scribbled tales from walkers who’d done the same. We laughed about it over fish and chips from Hawick’s chippy (best batter ever), the dog snoring at our feet. That gentle getting-lost vibe became our holiday rhythm: a surprise woodland trail behind the farm revealing bluebells we had all to ourselves, or stumbling on a wee stone bridge over a burn perfect for stone-skipping contests with the kids.

Reflecting now, back in the hustle, I realise it’s funny how a satnav fail sparked it all. We could’ve stuck to the tourist trails, but those accidental detours – the secret river bends, the silent kirkyards – they’re what etched this Borders break into my soul. If you’re after slowing down in proper style, get yourself lost around here. You won’t regret it.