We set off from the mainland in high spirits, the satnav promising a straightforward dash across Anglesey to Treestumps. Somewhere near Benllech the cheerful voice decided we needed a “scenic route,” and before we knew it we were bumping down a single-track lane lined with brambles, convinced we’d taken a wrong turn into someone’s garden. The satnav kept insisting we’d “arrived,” yet all we could see were trees and a hand-painted sign half-hidden by ivy. Laughing at our own incompetence, we reversed into a passing place, phoned the owner, and finally spotted the low wooden gate tucked behind a hawthorn hedge.

Treestumps itself felt like the sort of place you stumble upon rather than book. A pair of converted outbuildings sat beneath tall pines, their decks looking straight onto a fringe of dunes. We dumped the bags, made tea in mismatched mugs, and wandered out to explore, mapless and gloriously aimless. A sandy path behind the garden led us through marram grass and onto a sliver of beach we hadn’t noticed on any guide. No ice-cream vans, just driftwood and the odd wading oystercatcher.

Further along, the tide had pulled back to reveal a series of rock pools we’d never have found if we’d stuck to the main coastal path. We spent an hour crouched like children, poking at tiny crabs and wishing we’d brought wellies. When the clouds thickened we headed inland instead, following a farm track that curved between stone walls until we reached a tiny churchyard almost swallowed by gorse. The gate creaked like something from a film, and inside, lichen-covered headstones leaned at friendly angles.

By late afternoon we were properly lost again, this time on a lane that narrowed to barely more than a footpath. It opened, unexpectedly, onto a working boatyard tucked behind the dunes where an old fella was painting a dinghy the colour of daffodils. He pointed us toward a shortcut through the fields that brought us out, muddy-kneed, right behind our own cottage. We stood there for a moment, catching our breath and marvelling at how a wrong turn had handed us an entire afternoon of quiet discoveries.

That evening, watching the last of the light slide over the pines, I realised our comedy of errors had done more for us than any itinerary could. Sometimes the best bits of a holiday aren’t the ones you plan; they’re the ones the satnav can’t quite reach.