I’ll never forget the drive down to Dumfries and Galloway for my three-day jaunt to Mulberry – a cosy little stone cottage just outside Newton Stewart. The sat-nav was doing its usual sterling job until it decided to have a minor existential crisis right at the A75 junction near Gatehouse of Fleet. “Recalculating,” it chirped cheerily, before sending me on a detour through some gloriously empty back lanes that weren’t even on the map. I ended up in a boggy layby with nothing but sheep staring at me judgementally, my wellies still packed in the boot. Classic me – always one wrong turn from a full-blown adventure. But honestly, that insignificant mishap was the perfect overture to discovering Mulberry’s magic, because it tuned me right into the joys of getting properly lost in this tucked-away corner of Scotland.

Pulling up to Mulberry after that scenic scramble, I was smitten before I’d even turned off the engine. Tucked down a winding single-track road lined with wild brambles and the odd buzzard overhead, it’s the sort of place that feels like a secret handshake from the landscape itself. The cottage sits in its own wee pocket of woodland, with a babbling burn just beyond the garden fence – not some manicured showpiece, but a real, rugged haven that whispers “relax, you’ve arrived.” First impressions? Pure bliss. I dumped my bags, brewed a cuppa in the snug kitchen (complete with that Rayburn glow), and flopped onto the squishy sofa overlooking the trees. No signal, no distractions – just the kind of quiet that makes your shoulders unclench.

Wandering out for a nose around, I stumbled on the first hidden gem by pure accident: a barely marked footpath snaking from the garden gate down to the Cree estuary, all of five minutes away. It’s not on any tourist board, mind – just a locals’ path through knee-high ferns and gnarled oaks, leading to a pebbly shore where the water laps lazy and silver under the Solway sky. I spent that first afternoon beachcombing, unearthing sea glass smoother than a politician’s promise and watching seals bob about like cheeky submariners. Who needs fancy spas when you’ve got this? Chuckling to myself, I thought of all those times I’ve chased Instagram hotspots back home – what a mug’s game when places like this are hiding in plain sight.

The next morning, still buzzing from arrival vibes, I hopped in the car for a “quick explore” and promptly got lost again – this time veering off the B7079 onto a threadbare track that dead-ended at a forgotten mill by the Cree. Bladnoch Distillery’s not far, but this was no polished visitor centre; it was a crumbling 18th-century ruin, ivy-cloaked and whispering tales of illicit whisky runs. I picnicked on the stones with a flask of tea and some Tunnock’s teacakes from Newton Stewart’s wee Co-op, feeling like I’d gatecrashed history’s afterparty. Light drizzle started, but it just added to the romance – Dumfries and Galloway’s weather is half the fun, turning every mishap into a hygge moment.

By day three’s dawn, as I sat on Mulberry’s patio with mist rolling off the woods, I had a proper moment of self-reflection. Life’s mad rush had me knackered, always mapping the efficient route, the sensible choice. But here, embracing the detours – that sat-nav faff, the accidental mill, the estuary surprise – reminded me there’s joy in the unplanned. Mulberry isn’t just a stay; it’s a nudge to let go and let Scotland’s hidden corners work their spell. If you’re after off-the-beaten-track bliss, follow a wrong turn. You won’t regret it.