I finally made it to Bear Claw Lodge in Portrush after a bit of a faff on the road from Belfast. I'd set off bright and early, buzzing about this three-day jaunt to Northern Ireland's north coast, only for my sat-nav to throw a wobbly just past Coleraine. It directed me down a narrow farm track that dead-ended at a field full of curious sheep staring at me like I'd gatecrashed their breakfast. "Cheers for that," I muttered, reversing out with all the grace of a three-point turn in a dodgy Reliant Robin. Fifteen minutes later, I was back on track, pulling up to the lodge with the sun glinting off the sea.

Bear Claw Lodge is one of those proper cosy spots tucked away on the edge of Portrush, close enough to the action but far enough to feel like your own secret hideaway. From the first glimpse as I crunched over the gravel drive, it was love at first sight – a smart wooden cabin with a veranda begging for a cuppa, surrounded by dunes that whispered "get lost in me." I dumped my bags, cracked open a window to let in that briny Atlantic breeze, and thought, right, no itinerary today. Just wander and see what hidden gems stumble into my path.

First impressions? Pure magic. The lodge sits in a quiet nook near the West Strand, but I didn't head straight for the promenades packed with day-trippers. Nah, I fancied getting properly lost. Slipping out the back gate, I followed a scruffy footpath that snaked through marram grass towards the beach. Within minutes, I'd stumbled on this wee cove that doesn't even make the tourist maps – just a sliver of golden sand hemmed in by jagged rocks, where the waves crashed like they were auditioning for a BBC nature doc. No one around except a seal bobbing about, eyeing me suspiciously. I plonked down on a driftwood log, boots dangling in the surf, and chuckled at how something so cracking could be hiding in plain sight.

That accidental find set the tone. Wandering back towards the lodge, I veered off down a hedgerow-lined lane that looked like it'd lead nowhere. Turned out it spat me out at a forgotten corner of the Royal Portrush golf course dunes – not the famous bits, mind, but a wilder stretch where rabbits darted about and the grass was alive with skylarks. I felt like an explorer in my own backyard, phone forgotten in my pocket. Sat there munching a sneaky scone from my packed lunch (pro tip: always pack flapjacks for these jaunts), watching gulls wheel overhead. It's daft, but in that moment, I had a proper think about how we rush everywhere, noses in screens, missing these pockets of peace. Life's too short not to get lost now and then, eh?

By late afternoon, hunger drove me beachwards again, but I stuck to the back routes. Another fluke: a tiny shack café tucked behind the dunes near the lodge, run by a cheery local who brews the best fish chowder this side of the Giant's Causeway. No signage, no fuss – just a chalkboard propped against the wall saying "Soup Today." I scoffed it on a weathered bench, steam rising in the cool air, feeling smug as chips for unearthing it. Back at Bear Claw, the sun dipped low, painting the veranda gold. I fired up the BBQ (gas, thank goodness – no faffing with charcoal), grilled some sausages pinched from the nearby Spar, and cracked a tinnie, toes up on the rails.

That first day blurred into evening with the lodge wrapping around me like a favourite jumper. From the accidental sheep detour to those off-the-beaten-path nooks, Portrush revealed her best secrets to a wanderer like me. Can't wait to lose myself again tomorrow.