I’ll never forget the drive over to Anglesey that Friday afternoon – sat nav insisting we were nearly there, then bam, we took a wrong turn down some narrow lane that dead-ended at a sheep field. Typical me, always fancying myself as the explorer type, but there I was, reversing into a hedge while my mates laughed from the back seat. Still, it broke the ice after the long slog from the mainland, crossing the bridge with those Menai Strait views sparkling away. By the time we rolled into Rhosneigr, hearts were up – this fresh, attractive first-floor apartment in a little complex of four was just begging for a weekend unwind.

Private entrance round the back, kick off the sandy trainers in the bright hallway, then up the elegantly tiled stairs to that crisp white bathroom with shower over the bath. Inside, it was all stylish and cosy, perfect for our group of four mates – open-plan living with big windows letting in the sea light, and dead central for popping out. First impressions? Spot on. We dumped the bags, cracked open a few tins, and gazed out at the dunes. Little did we know, the real magic was in getting properly lost.

Saturday morning, we wandered off the main path from Rhosneigr beach – you know, that wide sandy stretch everyone raves about with its kite surfers – and stumbled onto a hidden cove I’d never heard of. Tucked behind Traeth Crigyll, it was this pebbly gem with rock pools teeming with crabs, no one else in sight. We spent hours poking about, me nearly twisting an ankle on the seaweed but laughing it off. Proper off-the-beaten-track stuff, the kind you only find when you ignore the signs.

Afternoon took us “exploring” again – aimed for a pub lunch but veered off down a footpath near Llanfaelog, ending up at this secret headland spot overlooking the bay. Wildflowers everywhere, seals bobbing in the distance, and a bench that felt like it was waiting just for us. We picnicked with pasties from the village shop, wind whipping our hair, jets from RAF Valley roaring overhead like clockwork (only Mondays to Fridays, mind, so we timed it right). It was brilliant – no crowds, just that raw Anglesey edge.

Evening, back to the apartment for a curry sort-out, we reflected over a beer. I admitted I’m a bit of a planner gone rogue; getting lost like that reminded me holidays aren’t about ticking boxes, but those accidental finds that stick with you. Sunday, one last detour – lost ourselves in the dunes behind the beach, unearthing a quiet tidal pool for a bracing dip. Chilly as owt, but invigorating.

Driving home, we were buzzing with inside stories – that cove, the headland, the dunes. Rhosneigr’s got the lot if you stray off piste. Can’t wait to go back and lose ourselves again.