I finally made it to Bakewell Premier Lodge after a bit of a faff on the drive from Ashbourne, my sat-nav deciding to have a mid-journey sulk and sending me down a narrow lane that dead-ended at a field full of bemused cows. "Cheers for that," I muttered, reversing out with the grace of a three-point turn in a Mini. But honestly, that insignificant mishap was the perfect opener to my three-day jaunt in Derbyshire – a reminder that the best bits often come from veering off the beaten track.

Pulling up to the lodge that first afternoon, I was chuffed to bits. Tucked away in the Derbyshire Dales, just a stone's throw from Bakewell, it's one of those proper cosy spots – a smart wooden lodge with a veranda overlooking rolling fields that scream Peak District without the coach-party crowds. The Premier bit lives up to its name: plush bedding, a telly bigger than my flat's kitchen, and a kitchenette stocked with everything but the chef. I dumped my bags, cracked open a brew, and stepped out for a nose around, already plotting how to ditch the guidebook and let serendipity do the driving.

First impressions? Blissful isolation with a cheeky nod to convenience. From the lodge, it's a quick wander into Bakewell's high street for a pork pie from the proper bakery – none of your supermarket rubbish – but I was straightaway drawn to the hidden gems you stumble on when you ignore the signs. Instead of queuing for the famous Bakewell pudding shop (tempting as it was), I followed a whim down a side path behind the lodge, away from the tourists snapping Chatsworth selfies five miles off. Ended up at a tucked-away spot by the River Wye, where the water gurgles over mossy stones and herons fish like they've got all day. No one else there – just me, a thermos of tea, and the sort of peace that makes you forget emails exist. I sat on a fallen log, feet dangling in the shallows, chuckling at how I'd accidentally found Bakewell's secret riverside nook, probably missed by 99% of visitors.

That evening, hunger drove another off-piste adventure. Rather than the main drag's chippy, I let my feet lead me along a hedgerow trail from the lodge's back gate – one of those unmarked footpaths that Derbyshire hides like Easter eggs. It spat me out at a blink-and-you'll-miss-it farm shop, run by a cheery couple who'd clearly never heard of gluten-free trends. Proper local cheeses, jars of chutney made from their own damsons, and bread still warm from the Aga. I loaded up on picnic fodder, feeling like I'd cracked some insider code. Back at the lodge, I fired up the barbecue on the veranda (gas, thank goodness – no faffing with charcoal), scoffing it all while the sun dipped behind Haddon Hall's silhouette in the distance. The air smelled of woodsmoke and wild garlic; pure magic.

Next morning, first light had me lacing up boots for more accidental exploring. A "wrong" turn from the lodge looped me onto a disused railway path – part of the old Monsal Trail, but I bailed early onto a sheep-nibbled meadow that opened to a hidden dell with a bubbling brook and wildflower meadows gone mad with buttercups. Picnicked there with yesterday's spoils, watching a buzzard circle lazy overhead. It's these off-the-beaten-path pleasures that hooked me – the thrill of getting lost in the best way, no map needed. Derbyshire does that; it's got layers for those who wander.

Reflecting on it now, sprawled on the lodge sofa that last afternoon with a cuppa and a Bakewell slice (nabbed from a tiny, hole-in-the-wall baker I found by pure fluke), I realised how these serendipitous spots recharge the soul. In our rush-rush lives, Bakewell Premier Lodge isn't just a base – it's a launchpad for those joyful detours that remind you life's too short for signposted routes. If you're after proper Peak District vibes without the hordes, get yourself here and let the lanes lead you astray. You won't regret it.