I should have known the holiday proper had begun when my sat-nav decided to have an existential crisis somewhere outside Karlovac. There I was, trundling down what I firmly believed was the correct road, when the robotic voice announced I had arrived at my destination. I had not. I was parked outside a shed with a very friendly goat and absolutely no holiday home in sight. The goat, I must say, seemed thoroughly unimpressed with my navigational skills.

This is how I found myself properly lost in Continental Croatia, somewhere in the vague vicinity of Gornji Zvecanj, with a boot full of Croatian wine and absolutely no mobile signal. The shed and its goat were, in retrospect, the first of several accidental discoveries that would define the entire trip. I had set out for a straightforward week at a countryside property and ended up stumbling into a version of rural Croatia that no glossy brochure had prepared me for.

The actual property, when I eventually located it, sat tucked among hills that rolled about like sleeping beasts. My late arrival meant I missed the proper sunset, but the moonlight caught the wooden exterior in a way that made the place look faintly magical, or perhaps I was simply giddy with relief. The key was exactly where promised, and I let myself into a kitchen that smelled faintly of pine and previous guests' cooking adventures. I made tea with the concentration of a bomb disposal expert, too tired to properly appreciate my surroundings.

Morning brought the proper revelation. I had planned precisely nothing, which proved to be the most excellent decision of the entire holiday. With coffee in hand, I wandered down what I assumed was the property's garden path and promptly lost it. The path dissolved into woodland, and I found myself following a stream that chattered away like an old gossip. This accidental route led to a clearing where someone, at some point, had placed a rudimentary wooden bench facing absolutely nothing in particular except trees and sky. I sat there for an hour, feeling rather pleased with myself for getting lost so successfully.

The following days developed a pattern I would not have chosen but came to treasure. Each morning I set out with vague intentions and each morning I failed to achieve them. A trip to find a recommended local bakery ended instead at a village shop where an elderly woman sold me cheese she had made herself, despite our shared vocabulary of perhaps twelve words between us. We communicated through enthusiastic gestures and mutual appreciation of dairy products. The cheese was exceptional. I never did find that bakery.

Another afternoon, attempting to locate a marked walking trail, I took a wrong turning and discovered a small chapel crumbling quietly into a hedge. The door hung open, and inside someone had left fresh wildflowers in a jar. There was no sign, no information board, no other visitors. I stood there feeling like an intruder and also, peculiarly, like someone who had been invited to a secret. I left no trace, took no photograph, which is unlike me. Some things feel too accidentally precious for documentation.

The property itself became my refuge from all this productive failure. Evenings I would return with my random discoveries - that cheese, some honey from a roadside table operating on an honesty box, a bottle of local plum brandy that made my eyes water. I cooked badly with good ingredients and ate on the terrace watching bats emerge for their evening business. The goat, mercifully, remained at distance.

I had packed books I never opened, planned day trips I never took. Instead I accumulated small, unrepeatable moments through sheer incompetence at following directions. There was the pond I found by hearing frogs before I saw water. The abandoned orchard where I ate apples slightly before proper ripeness and suffered no consequences. The village where an impromptu football game included me as honorary and useless goalkeeper.

On my final morning, I attempted to find that stream-side bench again and failed completely. The path had shifted, or I had, or perhaps it only existed for first discoveries. I laughed at myself, standing in bracken, recognising something I had not expected from a holiday. The value of being genuinely, helplessly lost, of arriving without ceremony at places unmarked and unmarketed.

I drove away eventually, sat-nav silenced, following road signs like a sensible person. The goat was not present for my departure. I like to think we had nothing left to say to one another anyway.