I’ll never forget the drive up to that holiday house near Penybont – we’d piled into the car from Shropshire with the kids buzzing about conker hunts and muddy walks, only for the sat-nav to chuck us into a cheeky detour down a farm track that looked more like a sheep’s personal runway. Bumping along with branches scraping the roof, I was half-convinced we’d end up in someone’s barn for the week, but it added that proper adventure spark. Twenty minutes later, we emerged onto the right road, hearts racing a bit, and there it was: this lovely whitewashed detached house, all cosy and inviting in the quiet village just 5.1 miles from Llandrindod Wells. First impressions? Spot on – generous off-road parking meant no faffing with double-yellows, and stepping inside felt like a warm hug, with rustic charm everywhere you looked.

The living-dining room sealed the deal straight away – those leather sofas begging you to flop down by the woodburning stove, telly on for footie, and the dining bit with its dual-aspect windows flooding the place with light. Perfect for our family of eight, loads of space to sprawl without tripping over each other. I could already picture lazy evenings there after days of exploring.

But the real magic? Getting properly lost in the Shropshire Hills Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty, stumbling on hidden gems that no guidebook bangs on about. First afternoon, we headed out for a “quick loop” from the village and somehow veered off onto a barely-there path near the River Ithon. No crowds, just us, a babbling brook, and a forgotten picnic spot under ancient trees where the kids found the fattest hazelnuts ever. We picnicked on cheese rolls, laughing at how I’d packed enough for a small army – classic over-preparer, me.

Next day, aiming for Llandrindod Wells, we took a wrong turn at a crossroads and ended up in this tucked-away hollow by a cascading stream, complete with a tiny stone bridge that looked like it belonged in a fairy tale. Turned out it was a local wild swimming hole, all secret and serene, with dragonflies darting about. The water was bracing (understatement of the year), but dipping our toes and splashing around felt like we’d gatecrashed paradise. No tourist traps, just pure, accidental bliss.

Wandering back via Penybont’s back lanes led us to another cracker: a wee community orchard bursting with windfalls, where an old chap tending his plot shared tales of pre-war apple harvests and pressed us with a bag of his best. We baked crumbles that night in the house’s cracking kitchen, the smell wafting through those airy rooms.

Looking back, that self-inflicted getting-lost lark was the highlight – no apps dictating the fun, just serendipity turning a daft mishap into memories. In a world of Instagram hotspots, these off-the-beaten-track finds near the house reminded me to loosen the reins sometimes. If you’re after unspoiled Wales without the coach parties, park up in Penybont and let the lanes lead you astray. We’re already plotting a return.