I’ll never forget the drive down to our holiday spot near Tenby – we’d packed the car to the brim with welly boots, board games, and enough crisps to last a siege, only for the sat-nav to chuck a wobbly just past Carmarthen. It rerouted us down some winding back lane that looked more like a sheep track, and before we knew it, we were proper lost, bumping along with hedges scraping the sides. A quick squint at the phone sorted it, but by the time we pulled up, I was half-expecting to find ourselves in Narnia. Still, that little mishap had us buzzing with anticipation – what hidden corners were we about to stumble into?

Pulling into the drive, we were gobsmacked by the first impressions. This cracking little retreat sat tucked away in the village of Stepaside, just shy of the Pembrokeshire Coast National Park, with off-road parking for three cars (handy with our lot) and a balcony screaming for sundowners. The hot tub was steaming gently, and our two daft dogs bounded out like they owned the place. Inside, three cracking bedrooms waited – each with its own telly and doors straight onto the patio. The king-size was a proper unwind zone, and the two doubles had en-suites with walk-in showers that felt like a luxury treat after the road faff.

From there, it was all about ditching the tourist traps and letting serendipity lead. Tenby’s got its famous beaches, sure, but we veered off the beaten path straight away, ending up at this tucked-away cove near Amroth that we found by pure fluke. We’d taken a wrong turn chasing a “public footpath” sign, and bam – there it was, a secluded stretch of sand with barely a soul, waves lapping at fossil-strewn rocks. We spent hours poking about, the dogs splashing like loons while we picnicked on pasties from a nearby farm shop we’d spotted by accident. Pure magic, that – no crowds, just the sea’s whisper and a bit of smugness for getting lost right.

Next day, another wander had us stumbling on a hidden inland gem: a woodland trail looping from Stepaside up towards some forgotten ruins. We’d meant to head for the coastal path but missed a marker (classic us), and it led to this wild, fern-choked spot with buzzards overhead and wild garlic thick underfoot. Sat on a log for a brew from the flask, I had one of those moments – you know, gazing out and thinking, “Blimey, when did life get so frantic back home? This is what it’s about, innit? Just pottering, no agenda.” Felt a proper reset.

Evenings were hot tub heaven, bubbles fizzing as we watched the sun dip over the hills, swapping tales of the day’s accidental finds. One night, a cheeky detour took us to a blink-and-you-miss-it beach café near Wiseman’s Bridge, serving the freshest crab sandwiches – discovered after the car’s low-fuel light forced a rethink. No grand plans, just those off-the-radar joys that make a holiday stick.

We left with sand in our shoes and a camera full of secret spots. If you fancy proper escaping without the hordes, get yourself lost around here – you won’t regret it.