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 Fishguard. We’d loaded up the car with two excited kids, our daft Labrador, and enough snacks to siege a castle, buzzing with that holiday anticipation of sea air and sandy beaches. But about ten miles out, the bloody thing – sorry, the navigator – lost signal, and we ended up on some narrow farm track that looked like it led to Narnia. A quick reverse manoeuvre involving a sheep and a lot of honking later, we were back on track, laughing our heads off. By the time we pulled into that sleepy village tucked away in the countryside, I was already grinning ear to ear. First impressions? Spot on. This single-storey five-bedder on a working farm felt like stumbling into a proper Welsh hug – off-road parking for the win, pet-friendly vibes, and rural peace that hits you like a deep breath.

We dumped the bags and flopped into the spacious sitting room, all plush seating and that multi-fuel stove begging for a cosy night in. The kitchen/diner was a dream for a pretend chef like me – electric range cooker gleaming, and we whipped up fish and chips that night before spilling out to the enclosed garden. The hot tub was calling, but with the pup chasing shadows, we opted for alfresco laughs under the stars instead. That first evening set the tone: no big plans, just pottering about discovering whatever the lanes threw at us.

And boy, did we get lost. Properly, gloriously lost. Our first wander took us down unmarked tracks from the farm, expecting nothing, and we tripped over this hidden gem of a cove just a couple of miles away – a pebbly beach called a local secret, where seals bobbed about like nosy neighbours and not a soul in sight. No crowds, no chip vans, just us skim-stoning and the waves whispering. I sat there with a cuppa, thinking, ‘When did life get so frantic back home? This is what we needed.’ Gentle nudge to self: more of this, less scrolling.

Next day, another accidental detour near Letterston – about 2.8 miles of pothole heaven – led to Pwll Crochan, this off-the-beaten-path woodland spot with a bubbling stream perfect for paddling. The kids built dams while we picnicked, unearthing wild garlic that ended up in a wonky pasta back at base. We chuckled about my rubbish foraging skills – ‘Dad, that’s a weed!’ – but it tasted brilliant. Evenings meant firing up the stove, board games, and tales of the day’s ‘discoveries’, with the dog snoring by our feet.

Venturing a smidge further on footpaths, we found Traeth Trefeiddan, another tucked-away beach gem where the dunes hid us from the world. Got properly turned around in the marram grass once, emerging covered in sand but chuffed – turned a half-hour walk into an adventure. These hidden corners, found by ditching the map and embracing the maze of hedges and hills, made the stay magic. No tourist traps, just Pembrokeshire’s quiet secrets. If you’re after that, pack your wellies and get lost here too – you won’t regret it.