I’ll never forget the drive down to Ramsey in Pembrokeshire – a proper Welsh adventure that started with me taking a wrong turn just outside Haverfordwest and ending up in a muddy farm lane, swearing at the sat-nav like it was my ex. Classic me, isn’t it? We’d set off from the M4 early doors, dodging the usual motorway queues, and by the time we hit the twisty A roads of west Wales, the kids were already bickering over crisps in the back. But honestly, that daft mishap was the perfect opener to three days of stumbling on hidden gems by sheer accident. Ramsey, this cosy stone cottage tucked away in a quiet corner near Haverfordwest, felt like our launchpad for all of it.

Pulling up after that detour, I was knackered but buzzing. The place is one of those proper Pembrokeshire boltholes – low-beamed ceilings, a wood-burner that promised cosy nights, and a garden that backed onto nothing but rolling fields and the distant bleat of sheep. First impressions? Blissful isolation without feeling cut off. No thumping tourist crowds here; just the sort of spot where you park up, unpack your wellies, and think, “Right, let’s get lost.” We arrived mid-afternoon on a drizzly Friday, the kind of soft Welsh rain that makes everything smell like wet earth and freedom. Cuppa in hand, we wandered out the back gate, no map, no plan – and that’s when the magic kicked in.

Our first accidental find was this tiny coastal path snaking off from a nondescript farm track barely half a mile from the cottage. I’d been faffing about with the bins when I spotted a weathered sign half-buried in nettles: “Private footpath to shore.” Private? Ha, in Wales that’s basically an invitation. We scrambled down, hearts thumping a bit at the adventure of it, and emerged onto a pebbly cove that wasn’t on any app. No chip vans or selfie sticks – just jagged cliffs, seals barking from the rocks, and waves crashing like they owned the place. We spent hours there, the kids building wonky dams while I skimmed stones, laughing at how I’d nearly twisted my ankle on a rogue rock. “Mum’s a proper explorer now,” my eldest quipped. Cheeky sod.

Next morning, bleary-eyed from too much telly the night before, we piled into the car for a “quick drive” that turned into another serendipitous detour. Missed the main road to the coast? No bother – we veered onto a single-track lane lined with blackthorn hedges, ending up at this forgotten tidal pool hidden in a dip by the estuary. It was like stumbling into a secret spa: crystal-clear water warmed by the sun, little fish darting about, and not a soul in sight. We picnicked on pasties from the village shop, feet dangling in, watching herons stalk the shallows. Pure joy, that – the sort of spot guidebooks skip because it’s only reachable if you’re daft enough to get lost.

By day two, I was hooked on the thrill of these off-the-beaten-track surprises. A wrong turn down a bridleway led us to an abandoned windmill ruin, its sails long gone but the views over patchwork fields to the sea utterly gobsmacking. We clambered about like kids ourselves, me pretending I wasn’t scared of the dodgy stone steps. It got me reflecting, though, amid the wind-whipped gorse – how often do we charge from A to B, missing the good stuff right under our noses? Here at Ramsey, with its creaky charm and perfect pitch for wandering, getting lost wasn’t a faff; it was the whole point. Those first impressions sealed it: Pembrokeshire’s best bits are the ones you find by accident, and this cottage is the ideal base for chasing them. Can’t wait to go back and lose myself all over again.