I’ll never forget the drive to our holiday house near Barmouth – or rather, the sat-nav debacle that turned it into a comedy of errors. We’d set off from Shrewsbury full of beans, windows down, belting out some old Oasis tunes, anticipating that first glimpse of the Welsh coast. But about halfway, the bloody thing decided to throw a wobbly, directing us down a narrow lane that dead-ended at a sheep-dotted field. Cue much faffing about with maps on our phones (signal was rubbish) and a mild panic as the sun dipped low. We laughed it off, though – turned out to be the perfect icebreaker for what became a trip all about happy accidents.

Finally rolling into Llanbedr, a sleepy village on the edge of Snowdonia, we were gobsmacked by the first impressions. This beautiful house, all cosy and welcoming with its classic Welsh charm, sat right amid breathtaking scenery – the Rhinog Mountains looming like ancient guardians and the Mawddach Estuary sparkling in the distance. We tumbled out of the car, bags in tow, buzzing with that arrival high. No chain hotels for us; this felt like a proper home-from-home, perfect for unwinding after our navigational nonsense.

From there, the holiday unfolded into a delightful ramble of hidden gems, stumbled upon precisely because we kept getting gloriously lost. Our first wander took us along the banks of the River Artro, right by the house – it’s a cracking spot for a gentle mooch, with the water gurgling and herons popping up like feathered locals. We’d packed a picnic, but ended up chatting with a fisherman who tipped us off about a tucked-away trail into the forests. Off we went, no map, just following deer tracks that led to a secret waterfall cascading into a peaty pool. Nobody else around – pure magic. I sat there on a mossy rock, feeling a bit reflective: when’s the last time I properly switched off like this? Work stress melted away; it was just me, the rush of water, and a profound sense of smallness amid those hills.

The next day, aiming for Barmouth’s beach (only 8.5 miles down the road), we took a “shortcut” that wasn’t. Veering off the main drag, we found ourselves on a winding path overlooking the estuary, pulling over at a barely marked viewpoint. Seals! Bobbing about like cheeky submariners, with the mountains framing it all. We chuckled at our “lost again” luck – turned out to be better than the planned beach day. Later, nursing fish and chips from a Fairbourne takeaway (10 miles the other way, but worth it), we hiked a forest trail from the village, unearthing an old stone bridge over the Artro that felt like stepping into a Tolkien tale. No crowds, just birdsong and the odd rabbit scarpering off.

Even Harlech Castle, just 4 miles away, revealed its quieter side when we approached via a back lane. We parked in a layby that wasn’t on any app, clambered up for views that knocked our socks off – medieval towers against the sea, with barely a tourist in sight. Light humour in the air as I tripped over a root, earning the nickname “Grace” for the week.

Getting lost became our superpower, uncovering off-the-beaten-track joys that guidebooks miss. That house in Llanbedr was the ideal base – cosy evenings by the fire, plotting the next meander. If you fancy ditching the obvious and letting Wales whisper its secrets, this is your spot. We’re already plotting a return.