I’ll never forget the drive to Coleridge Lodge in Devon – a proper faff from the start. I’d packed the car with enough cheese toasties and thermos flasks to see off a polar expedition, only for the sat-nav to chuck a wobbly just past Honiton. “Recalculating,” it chirped, as I ended up on a single-track lane narrower than my waistline after Christmas. Branches scraped the roof like an overenthusiastic back-scratcher, and I had a proper moment of “what am I doing with my life?” when a pheasant shot out in front of me. But hey, that’s Devon for you – it doesn’t do straight lines.

Finally, after what felt like an age of hedge-whacking, there it was: Coleridge Lodge, tucked away in a quiet corner near Axminster. A cosy stone cottage straight out of a storybook, with roses clambering up the walls and a garden that begged for a GandT at sunset. I arrived mid-afternoon on a drizzly Friday, the kind of soft Devon rain that’s more mist than downpour. Unlocked the door with the key in the flowerpot (classic), and stepped into a world of low beams, squishy sofas, and a wood burner already begging for a match. First impressions? Bliss. It smelled of fresh linen and polished oak, with views over rolling fields that made London feel like a bad dream.

Keen to shake off the drive, I grabbed my wellies and headed out, no map, no plan – just the pull of those hidden Devon lanes. That’s the magic of Coleridge Lodge: it’s bang in the middle of nowhere, perfectly placed for stumbling on off-the-beaten-track gems. Five minutes’ wander, and I found myself on a footpath snaking through ancient hedgerows, the sort that haven’t changed since Coleridge himself was scribbling poems. No tourists, no signs – just me, a curious robin, and the squelch of mud underfoot.

By accident, I veered left at a wonky gate and hit paydirt: a tucked-away wildflower meadow by a burbling stream. Butterflies everywhere, like confetti at a fairy’s wedding. I plonked down on a mossy log for a brew from the thermos, chuckling at how I’d nearly driven into a ditch earlier. Pure serendipity. Back at the lodge, I lit that fire and rustled up some local pasty from Axminster’s farm shop – grabbed it on the way in, impulse buy. Sat there as the flames danced, thinking how getting lost isn’t a mishap; it’s the point.

Next morning, same vibe. Slipped out post-breakfast (proper fry-up, with sausages that tasted like they’d grazed the next field over), and let the lanes lead me. Ended up at a forgotten orchard heavy with windfalls – apples so tart they puckered my lips, but free for the picking. Laughed out loud when I tripped over a root, ending up cider-soaked and grinning like an idiot. Who needs TripAdvisor when Devon’s backroads deliver this? Afternoon brought another fluke: a shaded dell with a bubbling spring, water so clear I could see tiny fish darting about. I skimmed stones like a kid, reflecting gently on how we city folk chase highlights, but it’s these accidental pauses – the quiet thrill of the undiscovered – that recharge the soul.

By day three, I’d mapped my own mental atlas of secret spots: a dew-kissed glade for morning yoga (or as close as my creaky knees get), a fox-watched hollow perfect for reading. Coleridge Lodge wasn’t just a base; it was a launchpad for joyful disorientation. No grand hikes or Instagram hotspots – just the pleasure of pottering, losing myself in Devon’s gentle chaos. As I packed up, rain pattering on the conservatory roof, I felt oddly reluctant to leave. Sometimes, the best holidays aren’t planned; they’re wandered into, one muddy bootstep at a time.