I’ll never forget the drive to our holiday farmhouse in the Brecon Beacons – or rather, the comedy of errors that got us there. We’d set off from Hay-on-Wye, full of beans after stocking up on second-hand novels from one of those brilliant little bookshops, when my sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly. It sent us down a single-track lane that narrowed into what felt like a goat path, complete with a flock of mountain sheep blocking the way and giving us filthy looks. Heart in mouth, I reversed for what seemed like miles until we squeezed past, laughing hysterically. By the time we crested the hill, anticipation buzzing, the rolling countryside opened up like a proper Welsh welcome. And there it was: this stunning farmhouse plonked right in the midst of it all, wild horses ambling by as if to say, “You’ve arrived, you daft lot.”

First impressions? Magic. Remote enough to feel like our own little kingdom, yet only ten minutes from Hay’s cosy market-town vibe. We dumped the bags and cracked open a cuppa on the patio, staring out at the Black Mountains stretching forever. No chain hotels here – just pure, unfiltered rural bliss.

The real joy, though, was stumbling on hidden gems by pure accident. We’d planned vague walks from the door, but on day two, fancying a proper hike, we took a wrong turn off the beaten path near the farm. Instead of the main trail, we ended up on a sheep-cropped sheep path that led to this tucked-away waterfall – not one of the touristy ones like Henrhyd Falls you read about, but a secret cascade tumbling into a peaty pool, with not a soul in sight. We picnicked there for hours, feet dangling in the icy water, feeling like we’d nicked a private slice of paradise. “How did we find this?” my mate Gaz chuckled, as if we’d cracked some code.

Next day, we hired bikes from Hay – cracking little outfitters right in town – and aimed for an Offa’s Dyke loop. But true to form, we got lost in the mist rolling off the hills, veering onto a forgotten bridleway. It spat us out at this abandoned shepherd’s bothy, half-swallowed by bracken, with views over the beacons that made your jaw drop. We brewed tea on a camp stove (Gaz’s idea, the Boy Scout), watching buzzards wheel overhead. Proper off-the-beaten-track stuff, miles from the car parks heaving with hikers.

Even a mooch into Hay unearthed accidental treasures: we ducked into a back-alley café we’d never have spotted on purpose, run by a local poet who slipped us maps to “secret” viewpoints just a mile out. One led to a wildflower meadow buzzing with bees, perfect for a lazy afternoon. I had a proper moment there, sprawled in the grass, thinking how daft it is that we city folk chase Instagram hotspots when getting lost unlocks the best bits. Makes you reflect on slowing down, doesn’t it? No signal, no rush – just us, the hills, and whatever whim took us next.

We wrapped up with a final wander, “accidentally” looping past a cluster of ancient oaks that felt like they guarded some forgotten tale. Brecon Beacons from a farmhouse like this? It’s not about ticking boxes; it’s the thrill of the unplanned detour. Can’t wait to get lost there again.