I have never been so relieved to see a caravan park in all my life. There we were, three hours into what should have been a two-hour drive from La Rochelle airport, my partner Dave white-knuckling the steering wheel of our hire car and me frantically waving a printed map like some kind of deranged flight attendant. The sat nav had given up on us somewhere near Royan, apparently offended by our repeated failure to take its suggested route. In my defence, the road looked like it went somewhere interesting. It did not. It went to a field of very angry-looking goats who, I am fairly certain, judged us harshly.

The mishap that truly cemented the comedy of errors came when I confidently directed Dave down what I insisted was a shortcut. It was a dead end. Not just any dead end, mind you, but one terminating at a small vineyard where an elderly French gentleman was peacefully pruning his vines. He watched our three-point turn with the weary expression of someone who had seen this exact scene play out countless times before. I offered a cheerful wave. He responded with a shrug that spoke volumes about British drivers abroad.

By the time we finally spotted the sign for Saint Georges de Didonne, I had developed what Dave termed my apology voice, a high-pitched frequency I apparently deploy when things have gone substantially wrong. The property itself, a modest stone cottage with blue shutters and a garden that had clearly known better days, never looked more welcoming. We practically fell out of the car, giddy with relief and desperate for the loo.

The key was where the owner had promised, under a terracotta pot that contained a single, defiant geranium. Inside smelled of lavender and old wood, exactly the sort of authentic fragrance you cannot manufacture. I immediately opened every window, convinced this constituted proper airing, and promptly trapped a wasp in the bedroom. Dave dealt with it while I supervised from the hallway, offering encouragement that he later described as unhelpful shrieking.

Our first evening was supposed to involve a civilised walk to find dinner. Instead, still disorientated from our journey, we turned left where we ought to have turned right and found ourselves wandering down a lane that grew progressively narrower and more overgrown. The houses thinned out, replaced by pine trees and the distant sound of the sea, which we could smell but not see. Dave suggested we turn back. I, possessed by that peculiar stubbornness that overtakes me when lost, insisted we press on.

This is how we discovered the little cove that became the making of our holiday. No signpost marked it, no path properly led there. We simply pushed through some bushes and found ourselves on a small beach of coarse golden sand, sheltered by low cliffs and completely deserted. The tide was out, revealing rock pools where small crabs scuttled with theatrical indignation. We sat on a fallen log and watched the sunset paint the water in stripes of pink and orange, sharing the bag of crisps we had fortuitously pocketed before our aimless wander.

That accidental discovery set the pattern for our entire stay. Each morning we would set out with vague intentions and promptly get lost, finding ourselves in places never mentioned in any guidebook. There was the bakery in what appeared to be someone's front room, where an ancient woman sold us baguettes through a window and threw in free madeleines because, she explained through elaborate gestures, I looked hungry. There was the tiny harbour where local fishermen mended nets in companionable silence, tolerating our presence with the same resigned patience as the vineyard gentleman. There was the overgrown cemetery behind a crumbling church where we stumbled upon a bench dedicated to someone called Marcel, whose inscription suggested he enjoyed fishing and strong wine, a man after my own heart.

The cottage garden, initially so unpromising, revealed its own secrets as we settled in. What I had dismissed as weeds turned out to be wild strawberries, tiny and intensely flavoured. Dave, who had never foraged for anything in his life, became almost evangelical about them, checking the patch each morning with the dedication of a prospector. We ate them with yoghurt from the dairy up the road, another place we found only because I took a wrong turning while supposedly walking to the beach.

By our final day, I had abandoned any pretence of navigation. We simply walked until something looked interesting, which it invariably did. The getting lost became the point, the unexpected discovery the reward. I thought about this as we packed the car for our return, the sat nav now meekly cooperative, the map folded with the defeated creases of experience. I am not a person who naturally embraces uncertainty. I like plans, confirmations, the security of knowing where I am going. Yet this holiday had gently insisted that sometimes the wrong turn leads somewhere better, that the unplanned moment contains possibilities the itinerary cannot imagine.

Dave caught me smiling at the memory of those angry goats as we pulled away. I did not explain. Some things are better kept as private treasures, little markers of a time when being thoroughly lost turned out to be exactly where we needed to be.