We'd barely left the M4 when the satnav decided to take us on a scenic detour through every back lane in Pembrokeshire. By the time we finally rolled into Saundersfoot, the sun was low and my phone battery was lower. The Barn at Waunlippa sits just above the village, tucked behind a high hedge that looks more like an afterthought than an entrance. I managed to miss the turning twice, which meant reversing into someone's driveway while a Labrador watched with mild disappointment.

First impressions were all about the light. The barn doors open straight onto a slope of rough grass that drops towards the sea, and even with the evening chill coming in, you could smell salt and warm stone. Inside, it's all exposed beams and that slightly creaky floor that tells you the building has been around longer than most of the people staying in it. We dropped our bags, made tea in mismatched mugs, and decided to stretch our legs before unpacking properly.

The plan was simple: follow the coastal path a short way, find a bench, and watch the last of the light. Within ten minutes we'd somehow wandered inland instead, up a narrow track that wasn't on any map we'd bothered to check. Brambles caught at my jacket and I was just about to suggest turning back when the path opened onto a tiny, almost hidden cove. No signpost, no other people, just a strip of pale sand and a line of rock pools that caught the sunset like someone had scattered broken glass. We stayed longer than planned, shoes off, toes in cold water, quietly pleased with ourselves for getting gloriously lost.

Back at the barn, the kettle had gone cold and neither of us minded. We sat on the little deck with leftover sandwiches and watched the village lights come on below. It struck me, in that slightly sentimental way holidays allow, how easy it is to chase the big sights and miss the accidental ones. Saundersfoot has its busy harbour and ice-cream queues, but the real charm seems to live in these quiet corners you only find when the satnav gives up. The next morning we meant to head straight to the main beach, but somehow ended up following another unmarked lane that led to an old lime kiln half-buried in ivy. We spent an hour poking around it like proper explorers, then wandered back for lunch with sand in our pockets and a growing list of places we'd never meant to see.

By the time we finally made it to the proper beach, the tide was out and families were scattered across the sand like colourful dots. We found our own stretch near the rocks, spread a blanket, and let the afternoon happen. The mishap with the satnav felt like the best thing that could have happened. Without it, we might never have stumbled across that hidden cove or spent an hour at the lime kiln, both spots we now guard like secrets. There's something quietly satisfying about arriving somewhere new and immediately getting the directions wrong. It forces you to slow down, look twice, and notice the bits that don't make it onto postcards. The Barn at Waunlippa gave us exactly that kind of start: a slightly chaotic arrival, a view that made us linger, and the gentle reminder that sometimes the best parts of a holiday are the ones you weren't looking for.