I’ll never forget the drive down to Hawthorne Lodge near Roadford Lake – a proper Devon jaunt that started with me taking a wrong turn just past Okehampton, thanks to my sat-nav deciding to have a midlife crisis. Picture this: me, swearing under my breath in that quintessentially British way (lots of “sods” and “blimmeys”), as the car splutters along a single-track lane that looked more like a sheep’s personal runway than a proper road. Fifteen minutes of reversing etiquette later – you know the drill, Devon drivers are pros at that polite wave-and-shuffle – I finally stumbled upon the right turning. But honestly, that little mishap set the tone for the whole three days: the joy of getting gloriously lost in Devon’s back-of-beyond lanes, unearthing hidden gems that no guidebook would ever bother with.

Pulling up to Hawthorne Lodge late afternoon on that first day felt like slipping into a secret world. Tucked away in the Roadford Lake lodges, it’s one of those spots that doesn’t shout its charms from the rooftops – no neon signs or coach parties here. The lodge itself is a cosy wooden haven, all weathered beams and those big windows framing the lake like a living painting. I dumped my bags, cracked open a tin of Cornish pasty (grabbed from a service station en route, naturally), and just breathed it all in. First impressions? Pure bliss. The air’s got that crisp, peaty tang from the nearby woods, and the lake sparkles under the weak sun like it’s winking at you. No traffic hum, no Wi-Fi nagging at me to scroll – just the distant call of a buzzard and the rustle of leaves. I chuckled to myself, thinking how I’d accidentally booked the anti-holiday: no Instagram hotspots, just raw, unfiltered Devon.

Keen to shake off the drive, I laced up my boots and headed out for a wander, no map, no plan – the best way to discover Devon’s off-the-beaten-track treasures. Within minutes, I veered off the main lodge path onto a barely-there trail snaking along the lake’s edge. Roadford’s massive, you see – 700 acres of water ringed by ancient oak woods – and it’s riddled with these secret spots you only find by ignoring the signs. First gem: a rickety wooden jetty, half-hidden by brambles, jutting out into the water like an old fisherman’s dream. I sat there with my flask of tea, watching trout leap and dragonflies dart. No one else around; it was mine alone. Felt like I’d gatecrashed nature’s private party. Light caught the ripples just so, turning the whole scene into liquid gold – proper magic.

Emboldened, I pushed deeper into the woods the next morning, letting whim lead the way. Devon’s lanes are notorious for this – narrow, hedgerow-choked ribbons that twist you into oblivion. One wrong turn (okay, two) spat me out at a forgotten farm gate with a public footpath sign swinging lazily. Beyond it? A blooming wildflower meadow, carpeted in purple knapweed and yellow ragwort, buzzing with bees. I sprawled out for an hour, munching an apple, grinning like an idiot at how something so mundane – a daft detour – had gifted me this. Nearby, I spotted what must’ve been an old lime kiln, mossy and crumbling, whispering tales of Victorian lime-burning folk who’d toiled right here. Hidden history, right under my nose. Lunch was a cheeky picnic of cheddar and pickle rolls from the lodge’s welcome hamper, eaten cross-legged amid the flowers. Pure, simple pleasure.

By day three’s dawn, I’d mapped out my own mental atlas of micro-adventures: a shaded fern gully perfect for paddling (water icy enough to wake the dead), a sun-dappled glade where roe deer tiptoed at twilight, even a sneaky badger sett I nearly tripped over. Each one born from that delicious Devon habit of getting lost. Hawthorne Lodge made it effortless – its position is a launchpad for these serendipitous finds, far from the tourist traps of Dartmoor’s busier fringes. Sitting on the deck that last evening, pint in hand, lake mist rolling in, I had a quiet moment of reflection. Life back home’s a treadmill of deadlines and distractions; out here, wandering blindly led me to pockets of peace I didn’t know I needed. Who needs grand plans when a wrong turn delivers such wonders? If you crave Devon’s true soul – the quiet, the wild, the accidental delights – Hawthorne’s your spot. I’m already plotting my return.