I’d barely left the M4 when the satnav decided to send me down a lane that looked more like a dried-up stream bed than a road. With the car lurching over potholes and the hedge scraping the wing mirror, I was convinced I’d taken a wrong turn, but then the lane opened out and there was Beech, tucked behind a low stone wall with a view across the Vale that made the detour instantly forgivable. The cottage itself felt like someone had left the front door ajar just for me; a slate porch, warm wood floors, and a kettle already on the boil as if the place had been expecting company.

My first wander took me no further than the garden gate. Beyond it a footpath I hadn’t noticed on the map snaked between blackthorn and hawthorn, and curiosity pulled me along. Ten minutes later I was standing on a narrow ridge above a field of sheep that lifted their heads in mild surprise. The sky was that soft Welsh grey that somehow still feels bright, and a kestrel hung motionless above the hedge. I hadn’t meant to come this far on the first afternoon, yet the path kept offering new turnings, each one smaller than the last, until I found myself in a pocket of woodland I’m sure doesn’t appear on any tourist leaflet.

The next morning I set off again with no particular plan, only the vague idea of finding milk. Instead I stumbled on a single-track lane that dipped under a railway bridge and opened onto a disused siding turned wildflower meadow. Purple knapweed and yellow rattle nodded in the breeze, and an old signal box, its paint flaking, stood half-hidden by brambles. I spent a ridiculous amount of time photographing a rusty lever, as though it might still move if I asked nicely. From there another path curled behind a row of cottages and delivered me to a tiny ford where the water ran clear over smooth stones. I rolled up my trousers, paddled across, and felt absurdly pleased with myself for having discovered something that wasn’t signposted anywhere.

By the time I returned to Beech the light was fading and I realised I’d walked in circles without once consulting a map. The cottage welcomed me back with the smell of woodsmoke from the Aga and a view that had shifted from green to gold. Sitting on the step with a mug of tea, I caught myself wondering how many other lanes I’d driven past on the way here, how many footpaths I’d dismissed as “just another field”. There’s a quiet satisfaction in letting the landscape decide the day, and Beech, with its unassuming doorway onto those hidden corners, made it easy to surrender to the unplanned.

On the final morning I packed slowly, reluctant to leave. A last short stroll took me down a sunken track that ended at a stone stile overlooking the same sheep field from the first afternoon, only now the sun had burned the mist away and everything looked sharper, more immediate. I stood there longer than necessary, listening to the distant bleat of lambs and the nearer rustle of leaves, and felt oddly grateful for the satnav’s initial mistake that had pointed me toward this pocket of South Wales. The journey home could wait; for now the lane, the meadow, and the ford were enough.