I’ll never forget the drive down to Pembrokeshire – one of those classic British road trips where the sat-nav decides to have a midlife crisis just as you hit the twisty lanes near Narberth. We’d loaded up the car with enough crisps and pasties to see us through a siege, buzzing with that holiday anticipation of sandy beaches and proper sea air. But no, halfway there, the blooming thing rerouted us down what felt like a sheep’s private driveway, complete with a flock blocking the way and me frantically reversing into a hedge. A proper comedy of errors, but we laughed it off, emerging dusty and determined, only two miles from Narberth market town.

Pulling up to the cottage – one of four tucked alongside the owner’s farm – we were smitten straight away. It had that cosy, welcoming vibe, perfect for kicking back after a long drive, with the farmyard buzz adding a real slice of rural charm. First impressions? Spot on. We dumped the bags, cracked open a tin of Welsh cakes from Narberth’s indie shops, and plotted our escape from the usual tourist traps.

The real magic of Pembrokeshire hit when we embraced getting lost – properly lost, the kind that turns a wrong turn into a hidden gem. Our first wander took us ambling towards Amroth beach, but instead of the main car park, we veered off down a unmarked lane (thanks again, sat-nav). It spat us out at a secluded cove you’d swear was made for a smuggling tale – pebbly shore, waves whispering secrets, and not a soul in sight. We spent hours beachcombing for sea glass, the kids building wonky forts while I pretended to be rugged explorer. Pure bliss, far from the Saundersfoot crowds just up the road.

Next day, hunger drove us into Narberth for a mooch – love those little shops stuffed with local cheeses and artisan bread. But we skipped the high street bustle, stumbling instead on a tucked-away farm café behind the church, where the owner whipped up the fluffiest bara brith I’ve ever scoffed. It was one of those accidental finds that makes you feel like you’ve cracked a secret code.

The Preseli Hills called next, and boy, did we get lost good. Aiming for a gentle walk, we took a ‘shortcut’ that had us scrambling over heather-choked paths, emerging at this breathtaking viewpoint over hidden valleys – no signs, no maps, just us and the wind. It was here, puffing like a steam train, that I had a proper moment of self-reflection: when did I get so hooked on the beaten path? Getting lost reminded me holidays are for ditching the plan, breathing deeper.

Even closer to home, a farm track led to a wildflower meadow we’d never have spotted otherwise – butterflies everywhere, perfect for a picnic. And that evening, a dusk stroll unearthed a forgotten coastal nook near Amroth, alive with seals barking like cheeky neighbours. No theme parks or harbours for us; these off-the-radar spots, born from wrong turns, made the week unforgettable. Pembrokeshire’s got a knack for rewarding the wanderers – next time, I’m binning the map altogether.