We set off from the ferry port with the sat-nav promising a gentle half-hour hop to the 3 Bed Cottage In Pembroke, yet somehow ended up on a single-track lane that narrowed until the wing mirrors were practically brushing cow parsley. A sudden “No Through Road” sign appeared, and in my scramble to reverse I managed to wedge the hire car nose-first into a hedge that smelled strongly of sheep. After much wheel-spinning and a helpful tractor driver’s laughter, we finally limped into the gravel drive, cheeks burning and boots already caked in Pembrokeshire mud.

The cottage itself sat low against a rise, whitewashed stone glowing in the late sun, and the moment we stepped inside the smell of woodsmoke and sea air wrapped around us like an old jumper. We dumped bags, grabbed a map that looked older than us, and decided an evening stroll would shake off the journey. Five minutes later the footpath we thought led to the beach had veered inland, depositing us at a tiny, almost hidden cove where the tide had left rock pools glinting like spilled treasure. We paddled about until our toes went numb, then followed a sheep track that climbed sharply and spat us out on a grassy headland with not another soul in sight.

The next morning, emboldened by yesterday’s accidental success, we ignored the obvious coastal path and struck out along a farm track behind the cottage. A handwritten sign for “fresh eggs” lured us into a yard where an elderly chap in a flat cap pointed us toward what he called “the old quarry walk.” Half an hour later we were standing at the lip of a long-abandoned limestone quarry, now carpeted in thrift and sea campion, with a sliver of turquoise water far below. A kestrel hovered above us, utterly unbothered by our presence.

Getting back proved trickier; we took a wrong turn through bracken and ended up on a deserted lane flanked by high banks of foxgloves. Just when we feared we’d have to retrace our steps, an open gate revealed a thread of a footpath that dropped us onto a stretch of sand so pale it looked almost silver. Driftwood sculptures someone had left behind stood like modern art against the dunes, and we spent a contented hour rearranging them into increasingly wobbly towers.

By the time we trudged up the last rise toward the cottage, the light was turning honey-gold and the windows glowed invitingly. I caught myself smiling at how little of the weekend had gone to plan, and how much better for it the days had been. Sometimes the best bits of a holiday are the ones you stumble into sideways, hedge-dents, muddy boots and all.