I finally made it to The Lodge in Strete after a bit of a faff on the drive down from Bristol. I'd set off full of beans, playlist blaring some classic Britpop, but about halfway through, I took a wrong turn onto one of those narrow Devon lanes that twist like a drunkard's scribble. Ended up in a muddy farm track with a herd of curious cows staring me down as if I'd gatecrashed their tea party. Classic me—sat-nav be damned, I was proper lost, but it turned out to be the perfect opener for the weekend. Fifteen minutes of reversing hilarity later (and a stern word with Google Maps), I rolled up to The Lodge just as the sun dipped low over Start Bay.

First impressions? Blimey, what a belter. Nestled in this tucked-away spot in Strete, it's one of those proper hidden gems you stumble upon by accident, far from the tourist hordes. The cottage itself is a cosy stone beauty, all wonky beams and sea views that hit you like a warm hug. I parked up, lugging my bag over the gravel path, and the door creaked open to reveal a lounge that screamed "kick off your wellies and stay a while." Fresh scones on the counter—none of your mass-produced rubbish, these were proper clotted cream territory—and a wood burner already stocked. I dumped my stuff and cracked open a tin of local Otter Ale from the fridge, sinking into the sofa with a view straight out to the glittering sea. Felt like I'd won the lottery without buying a ticket.

But the real magic kicked off when I decided to explore on foot that first afternoon. No itinerary, just a vague wander down the lanes, which is Devon's way of saying "get lost and love it." Strete's one of those villages that doesn't shout about itself— no coach parties here, just salty air and secrets round every corner. I veered off the main path by mistake, following a public footpath sign that looked half-buried in brambles, and ended up at this secluded cove I'd never heard of. Not Slapton Sands with its D-Day crowds, but a proper off-the-beaten-track pebble beach, empty save for a lone fisherman and waves lapping like they were whispering gossip. I kicked off my trainers, paddled in the shockingly chilly water, and laughed at myself for packing flip-flops instead of wellies. Sat there on a rock, munching a pasty I'd grabbed from the village shop (flaky, proper Cornish job), watching gulls wheel overhead. Pure bliss—no signal, no distractions, just the kind of peace you can't buy.

Evening rolled in, and I lit that wood burner, the flames dancing shadows on the walls. Cooked up a simple supper of fresh mackerel from a nearby stall—caught that morning, they reckoned—and paired it with a cheeky bottle of Cornish white. Gazing out the window, the lighthouse on Berry Head twinkled in the distance, but it was the immediate wildness that got me: deer grazing in the field next door, the faint hoot of an owl. Wandered out for a moony stroll along the clifftop path, torch in hand, and tripped over a stile in the dark—more comedy gold, sprawling into nettles like a fool. Brushed myself off, chuckling, and spotted another accidental gem: a smugglers' cove hideaway, all jagged rocks and forgotten history, lit by the moon like something out of a Poldark episode.

That first night, tucked up in the comfy king-size bed with the sea murmuring lullabies, I had a proper moment of reflection. Life back home's a whirlwind—deadlines, doom-scrolling, the lot—but here, getting gloriously lost had stripped it all back. No grand plans, just serendipitous spots that Devon doles out if you let her. The Lodge isn't some flashy pile; it's a portal to these quiet wonders, making you feel like you've nicked a piece of paradise. Can't wait to "accidentally" find more tomorrow.