I should have known the holiday was going to be interesting when my sat-nav decided that "Ostseeresort Olpenitz" sounded suspiciously like a fish restaurant in Hamburg. There I was, cruising confidently down the A7 with a boot full of overpriced motorway sandwiches and a passenger who had already eaten most of them, when the robotic voice announced we had arrived. We had not arrived. We were in a Lidl car park somewhere near Neumunster, surrounded by determined shoppers and the faint smell of sauerkraut.

Forty minutes of bickering and three wrong turns later, we finally spotted the Baltic Sea glinting through the pine trees, and with it, the unmistakable silhouette of the resort's modern timber-clad buildings perched on the Kappeln peninsula. The relief was palpable. My partner stopped muttering about my navigational "choices." I stopped pretending I had planned the detour for "scenic purposes."

The Ostseeresort Olpenitz sits in that curious corner of Schleswig-Holstein where the Schlei inlet meets the open Baltic, and the first thing that struck me was how the place manages to feel both deliberately designed and slightly wild around the edges. Our apartment had that satisfying Nordic minimalism you see in brochures but rarely encounter in reality, all pale wood and enormous windows. I immediately walked into the glass door leading to the balcony. My partner laughed for approximately six minutes. The bruise on my ego lasted longer than the one on my forehead.

Determined to explore before dinner, we set off on what I insisted was a "brisk coastal walk" and what rapidly became an accidental expedition. The marked path petered out after ten minutes, dissolving into marshy grass and the kind of tall reeds that obscure all sense of direction. Rather than sensibly retreat, we pressed on, because apparently neither of us has matured beyond the age of twelve when presented with unexplored territory.

This is how we found the beach hut. Not the smart rental ones near the resort's organised strand, but a weathered, half-collapsed structure tucked behind a dune, its red paint peeling like sunburnt skin. Inside, someone had left a rusting folding chair, a collection of empty beer bottles arranged with almost artistic precision, and a 1986 copy of Bild magazine. We sat there for twenty minutes, watching oyster catchers probe the mudflats, feeling like we'd discovered something properly secret despite the obvious evidence of previous visitors.

Getting properly lost requires commitment, and we gave it ours. The Schlei coastline here fragments into tiny inlets and sudden meadows, and without phone signal or geographical common sense, we stumbled into a working farmyard where an enormous dog regarded us with the weary tolerance of someone who has seen many such idiots. The farmer, emerging from a barn, directed us back toward civilisation with gestures that suggested this happened weekly. He also sold us a jar of honey from his porch, which we carried like a trophy for the remaining hour of wandering.

By the time we regained familiar ground, the light had shifted to that particular Baltic gold that makes everything look slightly enchanted. We found ourselves at a tiny harbour we'd never have located deliberately, three fishing boats bobbing beside a shed that doubled as a smokehouse. The proprietor, a woman in her sixties with hands like weathered rope, sold us smoked eel and brown bread that we ate on a bench watching the water turn silver.

That evening, back at the resort with proper wine glasses and a view of the marina, my partner observed that I am fundamentally unsuited to organised holidays. I protested, but only mildly. There is something about Schleswig-Holstein's unshowy landscape that rewards the wandering fool, the person who misses the obvious path and finds instead the heron's fishing spot, the abandoned hut, the unexpected conversation with a honey-selling farmer.

The next morning, I studied the resort's helpful map of recommended activities and local attractions. Then I folded it carefully, left it in the apartment, and set out again with no particular destination in mind. Some habits, once formed on a Kappeln peninsula with a bruised forehead and a jar of excellent honey, are worth keeping.