I have never been a natural navigator, so it is hardly surprising that my journey to Saal Neuendo began with me driving confidently past the turning, then past it again, and finally executing a three-point turn in a farm gateway while a very patient horse looked on with what I can only describe as equine pity. My sat nav had apparently decided that "arrive at your destination" was more of a suggestion than an instruction, and I found myself pootling along a narrow lane flanked by fields of rapeseed so yellow they practically hummed.

The property itself, when I finally located it, sat tucked behind a modest copse near the village of Saal, a proper rural bolthole in Mecklenburg-Western Pomerania. I had booked a traditional farmhouse-style place through Novasol, expecting something functional. What I got was a low-slung building with weathered timber cladding and a garden that seemed to have been arranged by someone with a deep respect for letting things grow where they pleased. A wooden bench sat beneath an apple tree that was already shedding blossom like confetti. I later discovered this bench would become my morning headquarters for serious coffee consumption and equally serious doing of absolutely nothing.

My first afternoon, determined to stretch my legs after the drive from Rostock, I set off with every intention of following the marked walking route I had photographed on my phone. Within twenty minutes I had wandered off it entirely, distracted by a narrow track that appeared to lead toward the Saaler Bodden, one of those shallow coastal lagoons that characterise this part of the Baltic coastline. The track petered out into rough meadow, and there I stood, slightly nettled about the ankles, wondering whether to retrace my steps or commit to my mistake.

I committed. This is a pattern in my life I am only now, in my forties, beginning to recognise and, if not embrace, at least stop fighting.

The meadow sloped downward toward a stand of alder and willow, and pushing through these I emerged onto a small, irregular shoreline I could find on no map I later consulted. The water was utterly still, reflecting the pale sky with such precision it created a disorienting mirror effect. A single wooden rowing boat had been drawn up on the mud, apparently abandoned mid-season or perhaps simply waiting for an owner who preferred not to rush these things. I sat on a fallen trunk and watched a heron perform its slow, deliberate fishing ballet perhaps fifty metres offshore. No other person appeared in the hour I remained there. The only sounds were occasional bird calls and the faint, rhythmic knocking of something wooden against something else wooden from somewhere across the water, too distant to identify and somehow more comforting for that mystery.

The following morning I attempted the same walk deliberately, armed with better bearings and a proper ordnance survey attitude. I failed to find my hidden cove. The meadow paths shifted and multiplied like something from a folk tale, and each turning seemed to offer three new alternatives. I laughed out loud at one point, standing in a clearing surrounded by identical-looking hawthorn bushes, recognising that my incompetence had become the entire point of the exercise. I was not collecting locations. I was collecting uncertainty, and finding it rather restorative.

On my third afternoon of purposeful wandering, I stumbled upon a tiny village church at Vielist, its brick tower visible above the treeline long before the rest of the building emerged. The door stood open, as country churches in this region often do, and inside I found simple pews, a painted wooden ceiling, and a guestbook with entries dating back decades. I added my own scrawl, feeling briefly connected to whoever might next happen through. Outside, an elderly man was trimming the churchyard grass with a scythe, a sight so anachronistic I initially assumed he was performing for some invisible heritage camera. He was not. We exchanged nods, neither of us possessing the language for proper conversation, and I continued on my way, eventually fetching up at a farm shop I had not known existed, where I purchased excellent smoked fish and some regrettable cheese that I persevered with out of stubbornness across three subsequent meals.

My final accidental discovery came during an evening walk when I took what I believed to be a shortcut back to the property and instead found myself at a small inland harbour where perhaps a dozen boats sat moored for the season. A woman was walking a dog that appeared to be composed entirely of beard. She directed me back toward Saal with gestures and the single English word "straight," which proved technically accurate for approximately two hundred metres before the lane curved dramatically. I arrived at the farmhouse after dark, slightly damp from a brief rain shower I had failed to anticipate, carrying my smoked fish and my persistent cheese, utterly content with my accumulated failures of navigation.

I never did find that first hidden cove again, and I have decided this is exactly as it should be. Some places, I now believe, are not meant to be revisited. They exist as proof that getting properly, thoroughly lost remains one of the few genuine luxuries available to those of us who have spent years cultivating the opposite skill. My sat nav, I should note, continued its unreliable service throughout the week, but I increasingly ignored it, choosing instead to follow whatever track looked least promising and discovering, with remarkable consistency, that least promising suited me perfectly.