I’ll never forget the drive to Elkstone Lodge last month – a proper Peak District adventure that started with me taking a wrong turn near Ashbourne and ending up splashing through a ford I didn’t even know existed. There I was, satnav on the blink from a dodgy signal, arguing with my mate Dave about whether to trust the faded signpost for “Tissington 2 miles” or plough on towards Dovedale. In the end, we went rogue, veering off the A515 onto a single-track lane that twisted like a sheepdog’s tail. Classic me – overpacking the boot with enough cheese toasties for a week, only to realise I’d left the map at home. But honestly, that little mishap was the best thing that happened; it led us straight into the heart of Derbyshire’s hidden corners before we’d even clocked eyes on the lodge.

Pulling up to Elkstone Lodge just outside Ashbourne felt like stumbling on a secret handshake. Tucked down a quiet lane in the Derbyshire Dales, it’s the sort of place you’d miss if you weren’t half-lost already. The stone-built beauty sits in its own grounds, with rambling gardens that spill into wild meadows – no nosy neighbours, just the bleat of sheep and the odd pheasant scarpering across the drive. We arrived mid-afternoon, sun dipping low over the hills, and as I fumbled the key in the lock (self-catering nerves, innit?), the door swung open to a cosy haven that screamed “put your feet up.” Exposed beams, a wood-burning stove begging for logs, and those deep sofas that swallow you whole. First impressions? Pure bliss. Dave cracked open a tin of Beamish while I brewed a proper cuppa, gazing out at the views that rolled away to nowhere. It’s not some flashy hotel; it’s a proper retreat, the kind where you feel like you’ve nicked Narnia’s spare keys.

But the real magic of those first hours? Getting properly lost in the lodge’s backyard secrets. We wandered out the back gate – no plan, just trainers on – and bam, there’s a footpath snaking into a wood we hadn’t spotted on any app. Turned out it looped to a tucked-away dell by a babbling brook, where the water was so clear you could see trout darting about like tiny submarines. Sat there on a mossy log, feet dangling in the chill, munching Hobnobs, I couldn’t help but chuckle at how we’d accidentally dodged the tourist traps. No Chatsworth crowds for us; this was our private Peak District pocket, ferns brushing our knees, buzzards mewing overhead. Dave reckoned it was straight out of a Tolkien tale, and I wasn’t arguing – especially after spotting a wee stone bridge that looked ancient, half-hidden by brambles. Pure serendipity.

As evening crept in, we pottered back, firing up the stove with logs from the outhouse stack. First impressions deepened over a slapdash supper of local sausages from Ashbourne’s butchers (grabbed en route, thank God). Sipping wine by the flickering fire, I had one of those quiet moments – you know, staring into the flames, realising how knackered I’d been from city life. Derbyshire does that, doesn’t it? Strips away the clutter, leaves you with birdsong and breezes. Elkstone Lodge nailed it from the off: no frills, just that effortless pull to explore its accidental gems. By bedtime, snuggled under the duck-down duvet in a room with windows framing the starry sky, I was already plotting tomorrow’s aimless ramble. If you fancy ditching the beaten path for a three-day reset, this is your spot – mishaps and all. Couldn’t recommend it more.