I’ll never forget the drive down to Pembrokeshire – a proper faff, really. We’d set off from Cardiff full of beans, sandwiches packed and the sat-nav chirping away, but halfway through, it decided to throw a wobbly and sent us down some tiny B-road that barely qualified as tarmac. Branches scraping the car roof, cows staring us down like we’d gatecrashed their picnic – classic me, always picking the scenic route by accident. Still, by the time we rolled up to this cracking little traditional cottage tucked in the National Park near Sandy Haven Beach, hearts were racing with that buzz of arrival. First impressions? Blimey, it was love at first sight – cosy country kitchen begging for a brew, plush sofas by the woodburner, and out back, this walled garden with a bubbling hot tub under a gazebo. Felt like we’d stumbled into someone’s secret hideaway.

We were only there for a few days, but the real magic happened when we ditched the guidebook and got properly lost. That first afternoon, instead of heading straight to the obvious beaches, we wandered off down a footpath from the garden gate, no map, just following the meadow’s edge. Ended up at this tucked-away cove you’d never spot on Google – a sliver of sand hemmed in by cliffs, waves whispering secrets, not a soul in sight. We picnicked there till sunset, laughing about how I’d nearly tripped over a seal sunbathing on the rocks. Proper hidden gem, that one.

Next day, same story. Aiming for Little Haven, we took a wrong turn onto these winding lanes lined with wildflowers, and bingo – stumbled across an old smugglers’ path snaking down to Dale’s pebble shore. No crowds, just us poking around rock pools teeming with crabs, the sea air so sharp it cleared the cobwebs. We even found a weathered bench overlooking the bay, perfect for a thermos of tea. Felt like we’d gatecrashed Narnia. Back at the cottage, we fired up the barbie in the garden, hot tub steaming away, swapping tales of our accidental adventures over sausages and stories.

One evening, we pushed it further – a “shortcut” through the woods behind the property led us to this forgotten viewpoint near Marloes, where the coastline just drops away into the Atlantic. Puffins nesting on the cliffs below, or so we reckoned from the cheeky calls echoing up. Sat there gobsmacked as the sun dipped, realising how daft it is back home, rushing about without noticing the world. Meant a lot, that moment – a gentle nudge that getting lost isn’t failing, it’s finding what matters.

Even nipped into Milford Haven for supplies, but skipped the marina bustle for a quiet wander by the Waterfront, spotting yachts bobbing and grabbing fish and chips from a no-frills spot that tasted like heaven. The cottage was the perfect base – those king-size beds with garden views knocked us out cold each night, roll-top bath for a post-explore soak, fluffy robes and all.

Pembrokeshire’s full of these off-the-beaten-path surprises if you let yourself stray. Can’t wait to go back and lose ourselves again.