I’ll never forget the drive down to Hope Cove Cottage – a proper faff from the motorway, winding through those narrow Devon lanes that make you question every life choice. We’d set off from Bristol early, me behind the wheel of our trusty old Fiesta, Sarah navigating with her phone. About ten miles from Salcombe, disaster struck: a rogue pheasant decided to play chicken right in front of us. I braked hard, spilling my builder’s tea all over the dashboard. “Bloody bird!” I yelped, while Sarah laughed so hard she nearly dropped her crisp packet. No harm done, bar a soggy sat-nav and a vow to pack a thermos next time. But that tiny mishap set the tone – this wasn’t a polished holiday; it was the sort where you stumble into magic by accident.

Pulling up to Hope Cove Cottage just before teatime felt like stumbling on a secret. Tucked in South Huish, mere minutes from Hope Cove itself, it’s one of those chocolate-box thatched numbers you dream of but rarely find empty. The owner, a cheery local chap named Mike, handed over the keys with a wink and directions to the nearest pub. “Mind the cows on the lane,” he said. Inside, it was pure cosy bliss: flagstone floors, a wood-burner begging for logs, and a kitchen window framing the sea like a living postcard. First impressions? Absolute gem. We dumped our bags and cracked open a bottle of Cornish cider to celebrate not hitting that pheasant.

But the real joy kicked off when we decided to explore on foot, no maps, just vibes. Day one, post-arrival wander, we veered off the main path from the cottage towards the coast. Instead of the obvious Hope Cove beach – lovely as it is with its fishing boats and donkey rides – we took a wrong turn down a hedgerow-choked footpath. Absolute hidden gem alert: it spat us out at a secluded cove I later learned is barely marked on any app. Pebble Beach, they call it locally, but it’s more like a smugglers’ nook with jagged rocks and waves crashing like they’ve got a grudge. We spent hours there, feet in the icy brine, spotting seals bobbing about. “This is what holidays are for,” Sarah said, “getting properly lost.” I chuckled, admitting I’d been the one who’d misread the signpost – my sense of direction’s about as reliable as a chocolate teapot.

Next morning, still buzzing from that find, we mooched out again, aiming vaguely for Bolt Head but letting curiosity lead. Another accidental detour up a farmer’s track – sorry, not sorry – led to an off-the-beaten-track viewpoint over Lannacombe Beach. Tucked away from the coach parties, it’s this wild stretch of sand framed by gorse and cliffs, where the wind whips up dunes perfect for a impromptu picnic of pasties from the village shop. We plonked down, munching away, watching a lone fisherman cast his line. No crowds, no Instagram hordes – just us, the gulls, and that profound Devon quiet. Light humour in the moment: I tried skim-reading stones and managed a pathetic two bounces. “World record,” Sarah deadpanned, before we both cracked up.

By day three’s dawn, nursing a cuppa on the cottage patio overlooking the gentle roll to the sea, I had a proper moment of self-reflection. Life back home’s a treadmill of deadlines and doom-scrolling; here, getting lost had unplugged me. Those hidden spots – the secret coves, the forgotten tracks within a stone’s throw of the cottage – reminded me how the best treasures aren’t signposted. Hope Cove Cottage isn’t just a stay; it’s a launchpad for serendipity. If you fancy ditching the sat-nav for a few days of proper Devon magic, book it. You might spill your tea en route, but you’ll find gold at the end.