I’d only been on the road for an hour or so when the sat-nav decided to send me down a lane so narrow that the wing mirrors practically brushed the hedges. A stray branch thwacked the passenger window and I nearly spilled the last of my coffee, but the surprise was short-lived because, just as I righted the wheel, the trees parted and there it was: Cabin No. 3 at Salt and Fern, tucked into a fold of hillside above Port Talbot.

The place looked smaller than the photos, which, in my book, is always a good sign. A wooden porch wrapped around the front, the paint still bright despite the usual Welsh weather, and a curl of smoke was already drifting from the flue. I parked on the gravel, boots crunching, and the first thing that hit me wasn’t the view (though that was lovely) but the quiet. No traffic, just the occasional bleat of a sheep somewhere uphill and the soft clatter of a wood pigeon taking off from the roof.

Inside, the cabin smelled faintly of pine and wood-smoke. There was a kettle already filled, so I flicked it on and wandered straight back out to the deck with a mug, letting the steam warm my face while I took in the sweep of bracken and distant conifers. The owners had left a note about a footpath that began just beyond the garden gate, and I decided, on a whim, to follow it before unpacking properly.

The path led me downhill through a stand of silver birch, then up again along a dry-stone wall half-hidden by gorse. I’d meant to stay on it for ten minutes, but every time I thought I’d turn back, something new caught my eye: a small clearing where foxgloves leaned like church candles, a fallen log polished smooth by years of passing walkers, a stile that looked as though it hadn’t seen a map in decades. Before I knew it, the afternoon had slipped sideways and I was properly lost, the cabin nowhere in sight.

I wasn’t worried, exactly, just amused at my own lack of planning. I stopped on a little rise and listened; somewhere below, water was moving. Following the sound brought me to a hidden brook that threaded through a patch of ancient hazel. The banks were soft with moss, and a single kingfisher flashed across the surface like a streak of turquoise. I sat on a flat stone, boots off, toes in the cold water, and realised I hadn’t checked my phone in over an hour.

Further along, the brook widened into a shallow pool where the light fell in shifting coins. Dragonflies hovered, and I caught the faint scent of wild mint underfoot. A rustle in the undergrowth turned out to be a young roe deer, frozen for a moment before it bounded away, white tail flashing. I felt oddly grateful for the detour; had the sat-nav behaved itself, I’d never have stumbled across any of it.

When I finally retraced my steps, the light had turned that soft gold you only get in late summer. The cabin’s porch light blinked on as if it had been waiting, and I found myself smiling at the thought that getting lost had become the day’s real itinerary. Inside again, I lit the wood-burner with the kindling left in the basket, poured a glass of the local ale I’d picked up earlier, and watched the flames catch.

There’s something quietly satisfying about arriving somewhere and immediately forgetting the plan. The cabin itself was warm and simple: a deep sofa, a shelf of well-thumbed paperbacks, and a window that framed the hillside like a painting. I hadn’t even unpacked my bag properly, yet the place already felt lived-in.

Later, as the evening cooled, I stepped out once more and looked up. The sky was clear enough for stars to prick through, and I could just make out the darker outline of the ridge where the brook began. Somewhere in the distance a tawny owl called, and the sound carried cleanly across the valley. I thought about how easy it is, in everyday life, to stick to marked routes and miss the small discoveries that happen when you don’t. Here, on this first unplanned afternoon, I’d already collected half a dozen moments I hadn’t known I needed.

The kettle whistled again from inside, and I turned back toward the door, boots damp with dew and a quiet sense that the next two days would unfold in much the same accidental way.