I have always believed that the best holidays are the ones where you accidentally take a wrong turn and end up somewhere brilliant. My recent trip to Cappel Neufeld in Lower Saxony proved me absolutely right, though not before I made a complete mess of getting there.

The trouble started at Bremen Airport, where I collected my hire car with the smug confidence of someone who had briefly glanced at a map three days prior. I had decided to take the scenic route rather than the main roads, because apparently I fancy myself as some sort of rural explorer. Within twenty minutes I was hopelessly lost somewhere north of Oldenburg, surrounded by nothing but flat green fields and the occasional cow giving me a deeply judgmental stare. My phone had switched to German navigation instructions with the enthusiasm of a drill sergeant, and I somehow managed to drive down a farm track that grew progressively narrower until I was practically in someone's front garden. A very patient farmer in wellies had to reverse his tractor to let me out. I waved apologetically about fourteen times. He looked utterly unsurprised, which suggested I was not the first idiot to do this.

By the time I actually found Cappel Neufeld, I was nearly an hour late, slightly sweaty, and in desperate need of the tea I had been promising myself since Bremen. The property itself is one of those traditional Lower Saxony farm conversions, all whitewashed walls and red roof tiles, sitting in proper countryside with proper silence. I stumbled out of the car, stretched my cramping legs, and promptly tripped over the doorstep while trying to locate my keys. The owner, a lovely woman called Martina, appeared at the window just in time to witness this performance. She was far too polite to laugh, though her eyes definitely did.

The cottage was immediately charming in that unpretentious German way. Wooden beams, a kitchen that actually had decent knives for once, and windows overlooking fields that stretched to the horizon. I made my tea, stood in the garden feeling rather pleased with myself despite everything, and decided to attempt a short walk to clear my head before dinner.

This is where the accidental magic began. I had intended to follow a marked path towards what I thought was a small lake. I missed the turning, obviously, and found myself walking along a drainage ditch between two enormous fields of wheat. The path petered out entirely. I should have turned back. Instead, like the stubborn fool I am, I pressed on, hopping over a small wooden bridge that looked like it had been built for rabbits, and emerged into a tiny hamlet that appeared on no map I had seen.

It consisted of perhaps six houses, an ancient chapel with a crooked spire, and a single bench positioned perfectly beneath an enormous oak tree. An elderly man was sitting there with a thermos, and he nodded at me as if strangers wandering in from the wheat fields were entirely routine. I sat on the other end of the bench, because it seemed rude not to, and we shared a companionable silence while I ate the emergency biscuit I had pocketed earlier. He pointed towards a gap between two buildings, and I followed his gesture to discover a hidden orchard, completely overgrown and absolutely beautiful, with apple trees heavy with fruit and a pond so still it looked like glass.

I spent the best part of an hour there, watching dragonflies and feeling rather emotional about the whole thing. There was no signpost, no mention in any guidebook, nothing to indicate this place existed except for a local who presumably knew about it because his grandfather had known about it.

The next morning I attempted to find the orchard again deliberately. I failed completely, ending up at a different dead end entirely, this time beside a field of sheep who followed me along the fence with the unsettling coordination of a small army. I laughed out loud at my own uselessness, alone in the Lower Saxony countryside with nothing but livestock for company.

Later that week I found other accidental treasures. A bakery in a village whose name I never properly caught, where the woman gave me a still-warm Streuseltaler and refused my money because I had apparently "looked like I needed it." A tiny harbour on the Jade Bight where local fishermen mended nets in the afternoon sun and pretended not to notice me taking terrible photographs. A cycle path that I joined by mistake, which led through salt marshes teeming with birds I could not identify but thoroughly enjoyed watching.

Each discovery came from wrong turns, from overgrown paths, from the simple act of paying attention to what was directly in front of me rather than where I thought I was going. The flat landscape of Lower Saxony, which I had initially worried might be dull, revealed itself as quietly extraordinary. The vast skies, the sudden patches of woodland, the way the light moved across the fields in the evenings.

On my final day I drove back towards the main road with genuine reluctance. I passed the farm where I had caused the tractor incident, and the farmer was there again. I waved. He nodded, slightly less wearily this time. I like to think we had reached an understanding.

I never did find that orchard a second time, which feels exactly right. Some places should remain slightly lost, waiting for the next accidental visitor to stumble through the wheat and wonder how they got so lucky.