I’ll never forget the drive to Barmouth – or rather, the near-disaster that kicked off our holiday. We’d piled into the car from Manchester, kids buzzing in the back with crisps and iPads, me navigating via a dodgy sat-nav that decided halfway through Snowdonia to send us down a single-track lane masquerading as a road. Cue a comedy-of-errors moment: we ended up nose-to-nose with a farmer’s tractor, reversing for what felt like miles while sheep bleated judgementally from the hedges. Heart racing, but laughing hysterically, we finally emerged, dusty and triumphant, pulling up to this cosy seaside cottage right on the edge of the coastal village. From the first glimpse – sea views peeking through the garden fence, the faint chug of the steam railway in the distance – I knew we’d struck gold. That anticipation of salt air and adventure? Totally lived up to the hype.

Our plan was loose: beach, ice creams, maybe the summer water taxi across to Barmouth for fish and chips. But holidays have a way of unfolding differently, don’t they? Ours turned into a glorious ramble of hidden gems, stumbled upon by pure accident – or as I like to call it, sanctioned getting lost. First morning, post-full-English fry-up (with proper bacon, none of that watery nonsense), we wandered down to the family play area by the golf course, only to spot a barely marked bridleway snaking off towards the Mawddach Estuary. “Why not?” I said, ever the optimistic dad. Ten minutes in, we’d ditched the crowds for a secret cove where the water lapped glassy-still, perfect for impromptu paddling. The kids built pebble forts while we skimmed stones, utterly alone except for a heron eyeing us suspiciously.

That set the tone. Afternoon saw us ‘accidentally’ veer off a footpath near the craggy cliffs at the village end, tumbling onto a wildflower meadow I swear no tourist brochure mentions. Picnicked there with pasties from the local bakery – flaky, steaming, stuffed with proper Welsh lamb – watching seals bob in the waves below. Pure magic, and zero Instagram influencers in sight. Next day, cycling wobbly hired bikes along the estuary trail, we took a wrong turn (shh, don’t tell the map app) and found ourselves on a pony-trekking path winding through rambling countryside. Paused for a breather at an overgrown viewpoint overlooking the sea, where the light hit just so – one of those moments that makes you reflect: when did life get so busy we forgot to just... wander?

Evenings, we’d pop to the pubs for a pint of local ale, eavesdropping on fishermen’s tales, or grab supper at a tucked-away restaurant serving fresh catch. One night, getting ‘lost’ after closing time led to a beachcombing session under the stars, unearthing sea glass that glowed like treasures. No zip lines or big attractions for us; it was these off-the-beaten-track spots – the forgotten paths, the quiet nooks – that made the stay unforgettable. Sure, I’m a bit of a softie admitting it, but there’s something profoundly grounding about ditching the itinerary. Barmouth’s village vibe, with its shops and water taxi hum, was the perfect launchpad for our serendipitous adventures. Can’t wait to get lost there again.