I’d barely made it out of the M5 traffic snarl near Exeter when the first hiccup hit – a rogue seagull decided my windscreen needed a fresh coat of paint, right in the middle of a hairpin bend on the A361. Laughing it off with a soggy tissue and a muttered “welcome to Devon,” I pressed on towards Ilfracombe, the North Devon coast calling like an old mate with a pint waiting.

Pulling up to Cairnwood Sea View just as the afternoon sun dipped towards the Bristol Channel, I felt that instant holiday buzz. Tucked away in a quiet corner of Ilfracombe, this little gem of a cottage isn’t one of those screaming-at-you-from-the-main-road spots; it’s the sort you stumble upon after taking a wrong turn off the high street – which, cheekily, is exactly what I did. My satnav had a funny five minutes, directing me down a narrow lane that dead-ended at a farmer’s gate, forcing a three-point turn in front of a bemused herd of cows. But oh, what a detour! That accidental loop spat me out right at the cottage’s unassuming gate, with its sea views peeking through like a secret handshake.

Stepping inside, the place wrapped around me like a cosy jumper – low-beamed ceilings, a wood-burner begging for an evening log, and a kitchen that screamed “rustle up a pasty supper.” But it was the view from the lounge window that hooked me: endless ocean, with the jagged cliffs of the Devon coast stretching out, dotted with hidden coves you’d never spot from the tourist maps. First impressions? Pure magic. No blaring arcade noise from the harbour, just the rhythmic crash of waves and the odd gull squawk. I dumped my bags and cracked open the French doors to the patio, brew in hand, already plotting how to unearth the area’s off-the-beaten-path treasures.

That first wander was a classic case of getting gloriously lost. Instead of trudging the well-worn Tunnels Beaches path – lovely as it is – I veered left at a faded signpost nobody follows, down a scrubby footpath that hugged the cliffs. Ten minutes in, and I’d found a pocket-sized beach, barely a speck on Google Maps, where the sand was so fine it squeaked underfoot. No crowds, just me, a couple of seals barking from the rocks, and waves nibbling at seaweed-strewn pools. I plonked down with a flask of tea, watching fishing boats bob like toys below. Who needs TripAdvisor when a daft wrong turn delivers this?

The next morning, emboldened, I struck out again from Cairnwood, aiming for the harbour but missing the turn for the fun of it. That led me to a wildflower-choked trail snaking behind the town’s older villas, emerging at a viewpoint over Rapp’s Cavern – that dramatic sea arch you hear about but rarely see up close without a local whispering directions. The air was thick with salt and thrift blossoms, and I sat there, boots dangling over the edge, reflecting on how I’d spent years chasing bucket-list big-hitters, only to realise the real joy’s in these accidental finds. Getting lost isn’t a faff; it’s the universe’s way of saying “slow down, you daft sod, and look properly.”

By day three’s breakfast – scrambled eggs on the sunny patio, with gulls eyeing my plate hopefully – Cairnwood felt like home. Another “lost” ramble took me to a forgotten smugglers’ cove just a scramble away, its shingle shore littered with sea glass treasures glinting like jewels. No signs, no Instagram hordes, just the thrill of discovery. First impressions sealed it: this sea-view haven isn’t just a base; it’s a launchpad for Devon’s hidden heart. If you’re after the rote tourist trail, look elsewhere. Me? I’m already plotting a return, satnav switched firmly off.