We’d barely made it off the ferry when the satnav decided to have its own holiday. Instead of guiding us straight to the 4 Bed Cottage in Milford Haven, it sent us down a lane so narrow the hedgerows scraped both wing mirrors at once. By the time we reversed out—me apologising to a startled sheep—we were properly lost, and the light was already starting to fade.

We followed a sign that simply said “beach,” which turned out to be the tiniest shingle cove tucked between two rocky headlands. There wasn’t a single other car, just a rope swing hanging from an old oak and a path that disappeared into bracken. We parked on the grass verge and wandered down, shoes filling with pebbles, until we found a flat rock perfect for perching with the flask of tea we’d meant to drink at the cottage.

From there the coast path wound upwards, and because we had no idea where we were going we kept going. Half an hour later we stumbled on a half-hidden inlet where the tide had left a perfect rock pool. Tiny crabs scuttled between anemones, and a seal popped its head up, gave us a long look, then vanished again. We stood there whispering like children who’d found pirate treasure, phones forgotten in our pockets.

By the time we turned back the sun was low and the cottage came into view almost by accident—a whitewashed stone house set just above the harbour, windows glowing. Inside it felt instantly welcoming: the big kitchen table still warm from afternoon sun, a wood burner already laid, and four bedrooms upstairs that meant nobody had to argue over who got the biggest bed. We dumped our bags, made toast, and sat on the little patio watching the last ferries chug past.

That first evening set the tone for the whole stay. Every morning we’d head out with no real plan, following footpaths that looked promising on the OS map and usually led somewhere better than we’d expected—a deserted sandy bay where we skimmed stones until our arms ached, or a tiny chapel built into the cliff that only locals seemed to know about. Getting lost became our favourite part; the satnav stayed in the glovebox after that first day.

Looking back, I realise how rarely we properly switch off when we travel. Being forced off course made us notice things we’d have driven straight past otherwise—the way the light changes on the water at dusk, the sound of oystercatchers calling over the mudflats, the simple pleasure of a quiet cove that’s yours for half an hour. Milford Haven itself stayed just far enough away that we never felt the pull of shops or bustle; instead we kept finding new corners of the coastline that felt like our own small discoveries.

By the end of the week the cottage felt less like a place we’d booked and more like somewhere we’d stumbled upon by happy accident, the way you sometimes find the best bits of a holiday when the map stops making sense.