I should have known the holiday was going to be interesting when I missed the turning for Arnager twice. There I was, trundling along the coastal road on Bornholm, absolutely convinced my phone was taking me to a charming little fishing village, only to find myself staring at a field of very judgmental cows. Second time round, I realised the sat nav had decided "coastal route" meant "scenic detour via every farm track in Denmark."

The Arnager itself, when I finally arrived, was one of those classic Scandinavian timber places with a red roof that practically glows in the Baltic light. Mine was the one perched right near the harbour, which I booked specifically because the description mentioned "uninterrupted sea views." What they failed to mention was that "uninterrupted" also applied to the local seagulls, who seemed personally offended by my arrival and spent the first twenty minutes conducting what I can only describe as an aerial protest.

I dumped my bags with the enthusiasm of someone who had been driving in circles for the better part of an hour and decided immediate exploration was essential. This is where I should confess something: I have a terrible habit of assuming I have an excellent sense of direction. I do not. I absolutely do not.

I set off along what I believed was the coastal path towards Rønne, reasoning that keeping the sea on my left was foolproof navigation. Within ten minutes, the path forked. I took the narrower option because it looked "more authentic." This is, I have since learned, classic me behaviour. The path grew narrower, then turned into something that was definitely more suggestion than actual trail, and suddenly I was clambering over rocks in a small cove I could not find on any map.

The cove itself was extraordinary. Tiny pebbles, absolutely clear water, and complete silence except for the odd gull and my own slightly laboured breathing. I sat on a rock feeling terribly pleased with myself for perhaps three minutes before the realisation set in that I had absolutely no idea how to get back.

Here is the thing about Bornholm, though. Getting lost is almost embarrassingly rewarding. I picked my way along the shoreline, found a track leading up through some gorse, and emerged onto a small road where an elderly chap was tending a vegetable patch. He looked up, unsurprised, and pointed wordlessly back towards Arnager. I must not have been the first flustered tourist he'd encountered.

Walking back the proper way, I passed a small smokehouse I would never have noticed from the main road. The smell was extraordinary. I bought some herring from a woman who spoke approximately six words of English and communicated mainly through enthusiastic gestures and samples. Best fish I have ever tasted, eaten sitting on a harbour wall, watching the Arnager boats bob about with that particular contented rhythm small fishing vessels seem to have.

That evening, I sat on the terrace of the Arnager with a cup of tea that was definitely more whisky than tea, watching the light change over the Baltic. The seagulls had forgiven me, or perhaps simply found better entertainment. I thought about my cove, my smokehouse, my wordless saviour in the vegetable patch. All of them found by getting it wrong, by being stubborn, by refusing to admit I was lost until it was far too late to pretend otherwise.

I have been on holidays where everything went exactly to plan. They were fine. This was better.