I’ll never forget the drive to Clover Lodge – a proper faff from the moment we hit the A30. We’d set off from Exeter early, me behind the wheel of our battered old Fiesta, Sarah navigating with her phone propped on the dash. “Turn left in 500 yards,” it chirped, but somehow we missed the slip road for the B3214 and ended up in a queue of tractors crawling towards Okehampton. By the time we escaped, we were peckish and desperate for a loo. Then, the insignificant mishap: a rogue pheasant decided to play chicken right in front of us near Northlew. I braked hard, spilling my thermos of tea all over the passenger mat. “Bloody wildlife ambush!” I laughed, while Sarah mopped up, calling me a “Devon disaster magnet.” Twenty minutes later, we were finally trundling down the narrow lanes to Roadford Lake, the sat-nav finally shutting up as Clover Lodge came into view.

Nestled among the Roadford Lake Lodges, it was love at first sight – a cosy wooden lodge with a veranda overlooking the shimmering reservoir, all surrounded by lush Devon woodland. We’d booked it on a whim for a three-day escape, craving that proper off-grid vibe. Unloading our bags, the fresh air hit us like a tonic; no motorway hum, just the lap of water and distant bird calls. First impressions? Blissfully remote, yet with that welcoming hug of home. The inside was spot-on: open-plan living with a wood-burner begging to be lit, a kitchen stocked with everything from cafetière to quirky mugs, and a king-sized bed upstairs that promised proper kip. We cracked open a bottle of local Devon cider on the deck, toasting our arrival as the sun dipped behind the hills.

But the real magic of Clover Lodge kicked off when we embraced getting lost – those hidden gems you only find by ditching the map. Day one, post-arrival cuppa, we wandered out for a “quick explore” along the lake’s edge path. No grand plan, just trainers on and off we went. Within minutes, we stumbled on a secluded cove, tucked away from the main angling spots – a proper secret beach with water so clear you could see tiny fish darting about. “This is it,” Sarah grinned, dipping her toes. We picnicked there on cheese pasties from our boot (Tesco’s finest, naturally), watching buzzards wheel overhead. Light as a feather, that moment – pure Devon serendipity.

Emboldened, afternoon saw us veer off onto a barely marked bridleway snaking into Broadwoodwidger’s back lanes. The Fiesta bumped along, us giggling like kids as hedges scraped the sides. We ended up at a forgotten orchard, wild apples littering the ground amid gnarled trees heavy with fruit. No signs, no tourists – just us plucking windfalls and scoffing them on the spot, juice dripping down chins. “Hidden pie potential,” I quipped, stuffing pockets full for later. Back at the lodge, we baked a rustic crumble, the oven’s warmth chasing away the evening chill. Simple joys, but they hit different when you’ve chanced upon them.

That first evening, as mist rolled over the lake, I had a quiet moment of self-reflection on the veranda. Staring at the ripples, I realised how often life’s rush blinds us to these pockets of peace. Clover Lodge wasn’t just a stay; it was a nudge to get lost on purpose, to let Devon’s quiet corners unfold. No Instagram crowds, no checklists – just accidental discoveries that made our three days unforgettable. If you fancy ditching the beaten track for a taste of real rural magic, this is your spot. We left already plotting a return, pheasants permitting.