We set off from the ferry in good spirits, the SatNav promising a straightforward half-hour to the cottage near Broad Haven. Twenty minutes later we were on a single-track lane that narrowed with every bend, and I was beginning to suspect the postcode had a sense of humour. When the hedge suddenly decided to claim a wing mirror, the only sound was a polite crunch followed by my partner’s calm observation that “at least it still folds in.” We reversed into a passing place, laughed until our sides hurt, and finally rolled into the little whitewashed cottage just as the light turned that soft Pembrokeshire gold.

The cottage sat at the end of a short gravel track, its garden gate opening straight onto a footpath that the owner had casually mentioned led “somewhere nice.” Still buzzing from the mirror incident, we decided to stretch our legs before unpacking. The path dipped behind a stand of gorse, then climbed a low bank and promptly vanished into bracken. Within minutes we were properly lost, which in Pembrokeshire usually means you’ve found something worth finding.

We emerged onto a sliver of sand tucked between two slate outcrops that didn’t appear on any map we’d glanced at. Driftwood formed a natural bench; the only footprints were our own and a neat line of oystercatcher tracks. We sat for a while, listening to the hush of waves that never quite reached the main beaches, and agreed that getting gloriously misplaced had already paid for itself.

The next morning we tried again, this time armed with the cottage’s battered OS map and zero expectations. A stile behind the garden led to a sunken lane bordered by foxgloves. Halfway along, a gap in the hedge revealed an old limekiln, its arched mouth framing a view of Ramsey Sound that felt almost private. We spent an hour poking around, discovering fossil patterns in the fallen stones and watching seals drift past like slow grey logs.

By the third accidental detour we’d stopped pretending we knew where we were going. One overgrown track brought us to a freshwater stream that trickled onto a pocket of sand; another ended at a clifftop bench someone had clearly cobbled together from driftwood and optimism. Each time we returned to the cottage slightly muddier, slightly happier, and with another story to add to the tally.

On our last evening the mirror looked almost jaunty again after a bit of gaffer tape, and the cottage felt less like a place we’d booked and more like a lucky accident we’d been allowed to keep. As the sun slipped behind the Preselis, I realised the best parts of the holiday had happened precisely because we’d stopped trying to follow a plan. Sometimes the SatNav gets it wrong on purpose.