I finally made it to that cosy 2 Bed Lodge in Bideford after a bit of a faff on the drive down from the Midlands. Picture this: I'm bombing along the A361, past those rolling Devon fields that look like they've been plucked from a postcard, when I decide to stop at a layby for a pasty from a roadside van. Big mistake – or was it? The wrapper splits open in my lap, showering crumbs everywhere, and by the time I've hoovered them up with a serviette, I've missed the turn for Bideford. No sat-nav signal, mind you, because Devon has this cheeky way of hiding from technology. So there I am, detouring through some unnamed lanes, swearing under my breath, but secretly chuffed because that's how you stumble on the proper hidden gems.

Twenty minutes later, I roll up to the lodge, knackered but buzzing. It's tucked away in a quiet spot just outside Bideford, the kind of place you'd miss if you blinked – whitewashed walls, a thatched roof nodding to old Devon charm, and a little garden bursting with hydrangeas that must be the size of footballs come summer. I lug my bags in, and blimey, it's spot on: two snug bedrooms upstairs, beams you could bump your head on if you're daft like me, and a kitchen that's proper homely with a Rayburn cooker begging for a fry-up. First impressions? Pure bliss. No blaring telly ads or noisy neighbours – just the sound of birds and the distant moo of cows. I crack open a tin of cider from the offy in Bideford and flop on the sofa, thinking, "This is it, the three-day escape I've been gagging for."

But the real magic kicked off straight away with that accidental detour. Instead of faffing with tourist traps, I wandered out for a "quick look" and ended up lost in the best possible way. Five minutes from the lodge, I veer off down a footpath signposted "to the river" – or was it "to the pub"? Who cares. It leads me to a secret stretch of the Torridge estuary, away from the main path where families chuck crabbing lines. Here, it's just me, the mudflats glittering at low tide, and a lone heron eyeing me suspiciously like I've gatecrashed his fishing spot. I sit on a weathered bench, feet dangling over the water, and watch seals bob about – proper wildlife telly, live and free. No one's around; it's like Devon's whispered, "Fancy a private show, mate?"

Emboldened, I push on, following a drystone wall that snakes uphill. Another accidental turn, and I'm in this overgrown orchard, apples littering the ground like they've been dropped by a giant's picnic. I snaffle a few (they're windfalls, right?), tart as anything, and perch on a stile laughing at myself – here I am, 40-something city lad, playing Pooh Bear in the woods. The views back over Bideford Bay are mental: the lump of Lundy Island on the horizon, fishing boats chugging home. It's off-the-beaten-track perfection, the sort of spot you'd never find on a map app.

That evening, back at the lodge, I rustle up fish and chips from the chippy in town – five-minute drive, grease-proof paper and all – and eat them on the patio as the sun dips. Gentle self-reflection hits me then: life's too short for sticking to the itinerary. Getting lost led me to these quiet corners, these slices of Devon that feel like they're just for me. The lodge isn't some fancy hotel; it's a launchpad for serendipity, close enough to Bideford's buzz but worlds away from the crowds. First day in, and I'm already plotting tomorrow's aimless ramble along the old railway path to Appledore, where rumours of a hidden beach lurk. If this is what arrival brings, sod the plans – Devon's got me hooked.