The drive from Swansea took a bit longer than expected, mainly because I’d insisted on following the coastal road instead of the quicker A-road, and somewhere near Parkmill I took a wrong turning that led me down a single-track lane flanked by towering hedges. By the time I realised I was heading the wrong way, the sat-nav had given up and the lane had narrowed to the point where I had to reverse into someone’s driveway to turn around. The only casualty was a half-eaten bag of crisps that slid off the passenger seat, but it felt like a fitting start to a weekend of accidental detours.

Glamping Tri Pod 8 sits on a gentle slope above the fields, its wooden frame blending so well with the trees that I almost drove past the entrance twice. The moment I stepped out of the car, the air smelled of salt and cut grass, and the only sound was the distant bleat of sheep. Inside, the pod was surprisingly roomy, with a proper bed, a tiny kitchenette, and a wood-burner already laid with kindling. I dropped my bag, made a quick cup of tea, and stepped straight back outside, keen to see where the footpaths went.

I hadn’t planned much beyond “explore,” so I simply followed the first track that looked interesting. It wound through bracken and gorse until it opened onto a narrow strip of cliff that wasn’t marked on any map I’d glanced at. Below, the tide was out, revealing rock pools I hadn’t expected to find so close to the pod. I spent the best part of an hour crouched over anemones and tiny crabs, shoes getting soaked, before noticing a faint path that continued along the cliff edge. It led me to a small cove where a handful of locals were quietly fishing from the rocks; they nodded hello and carried on, and I felt quietly pleased to have stumbled into their spot rather than a busy beach.

Retracing my steps, I took another turning I hadn’t noticed on the way down and ended up in a sheltered hollow filled with wildflowers and the low hum of bees. There was an old stone stile half-hidden by ivy, and beyond it a short stretch of woodland that opened onto a field with nothing but a single oak in the middle. I sat against the trunk for a while, listening to nothing in particular, and realised how rarely I allow myself to wander without a destination. The afternoon slipped away in that quiet hollow, and when the light began to fade I headed back, following a different route that somehow brought me out almost at the pod’s garden gate.

That evening I lit the wood-burner, cooked a simple supper on the two-ring hob, and sat with the door open watching the sky turn pink over the fields. The accidental wanderings of the day had left me pleasantly tired, and I found myself thinking how easy it is, even on a short break, to fill every hour with plans. Here, the land itself had done the planning for me, offering up its hidden corners only when I stopped trying to find them. Tomorrow, I decided, I’d do the same thing again—step out, turn left or right at random, and see where the paths decided to take me.