I’ll never forget the drive up to our holiday apartment in Chester, North Wales – well, technically just over the border in Cheshire, but it felt like the gateway to Welsh adventures. We’d piled into the car from Manchester with high hopes, me navigating on my phone while my mate Dave drove. Big mistake. Somewhere near the A55, I misread a junction sign in the drizzle, and we ended up on a narrow lane that seemed to lead straight into a sheep’s front garden. Cue 20 minutes of reversing past bemused farmers and low-hanging branches, laughing our heads off. “This is why we can’t have nice holidays,” Dave quipped. But honestly, that little mishap set the tone – we were in for a week of glorious getting lost.

Pulling up to the place, my heart did a little flip of anticipation. Tucked away in a quiet corner of Chester, it was a cosy modern apartment with that welcoming vibe – clean lines, comfy sofas, and a kitchen that screamed “cook brekkie and pretend you’re local”. First impressions? Spot on. We dumped the bags, cracked open a couple of tins, and within minutes were plotting our escape from the tourist traps.

Chester’s got its famous spots, like the Rows and the Cathedral, but we were all about the hidden gems you stumble on by accident. Day one, we ditched the main drags and wandered off the city walls down a side path near the River Dee. Ended up in this tucked-away spot by the weir – a proper locals’ picnic haven with ducks quacking for crumbs and not a selfie stick in sight. We sprawled out with pasties from a nearby bakery, watching rowers glide by. Pure bliss, and zero crowds.

Next morning, we got properly lost ambling through Grosvenor Park. What started as a shortcut turned into discovering this forgotten corner with a massive old oak you could hug (I did, for the photo op). Kids were flying kites nearby, and we chatted to an old chap who swore it was the best tree in Cheshire for wishing on. From there, we veered into the back lanes behind the retail park – not glamorous, but there’s a brilliant little café hidden down an alley, serving the creamiest Welsh rarebit you’ll ever taste. No menus online, no TripAdvisor hype; just stumbled upon it while arguing over which way was back to the apartment.

One afternoon, we took a punt on a footpath from the Roman Amphitheatre that no one else seemed to know. It looped us to a serene bit of the Dee where otters play (we didn’t see any, but the locals promised). Sat there with flasks of tea, reflecting on how I’m always the one who needs a plan, yet these aimless wanders recharge me most. Dave caught me staring at the water, grinning: “See? Getting lost suits you.”

Evenings, we’d return to the apartment knackered but buzzing, cooking up finds from the Tudor Rows’ quirky stalls – artisan cheeses and bara brith that tasted of home. Our last day, a wrong turn near Storyhouse led to a pocket garden with wildflowers and benches, perfect for people-watching without the bustle.

Chester’s magic isn’t the big-ticket stuff; it’s these offbeat nooks that sneak up when you let go of the map. Can’t wait to get lost there again.