I should have known the holiday was going to be interesting when I put the postcode into my sat nav and it directed me to a field full of very unimpressed cows. Three U-turns and one heated debate with a disembodied voice later, I finally found the actual entrance to Ostseeresort Olpenitz, tucked away on the Kappeln peninsula in Schleswig-Holstein. My partner gave me that look. You know the one. The "I told you to check the directions properly" look. I maintain the cows were poorly signposted.

The resort itself materialises rather suddenly after a winding lane through flat coastal farmland. One minute you're looking at sheep, the next there's this striking modern complex of timber and glass perched right on the water's edge. I was still flustered from my bovine encounter, so I managed to walk straight into the automatic door before it had finished opening. Not my finest moment. The receptionist was far too professional to laugh, though her colleague suddenly found something fascinating on her computer screen.

Our apartment was in the newer section, all clean Nordic lines and enormous windows overlooking the Schlei fjord. I immediately opened every door and window to let the Baltic air in, then spent ten minutes trying to work out how to close the sliding balcony door again. There's something humbling about being outsmarted by a piece of glazing. The view, though. That made up for everything. The water was doing that particular silvery-grey thing it does in this part of Germany, where the sky and sea seem to negotiate a truce on colour.

Determined to explore properly, I set off on what I intended to be a quick recce of the immediate area. This is where I should mention that my sense of direction has been described, charitably, as "creative." Within twenty minutes I'd wandered past the resort's marina and found myself on a narrow path between two hedgerows that definitely wasn't on any map I'd seen. The path kept branching, and I kept choosing whichever option looked most interesting, which is a terrible strategy if you ever want to see your accommodation again.

I emerged, slightly scratched and extremely pleased with myself, onto a tiny shingle beach I'd never have found deliberately. A couple of locals were fishing from folding chairs, and an ancient dachshund regarded me with the weary tolerance of someone who'd seen many lost tourists. We had a brief conversation in my atrocious German about the weather, or possibly about my general incompetence, I'm still not entirely sure. The man offered me a boiled sweet. It was aniseed. I ate it anyway. When in Schleswig-Holstein, and all that.

The walk back took longer because I got distracted by a church tower visible above the trees and went to investigate. St. Nikolai in Kappeln turned out to be closed, but the churchyard had a bench with my name on it, and I sat there watching swallows dart about while pretending I wasn't completely lost. A woman walking her dog took pity on me and pointed me toward the harbour, which I recognised from our approach. I bought a fish roll from a kiosk and ate it wandering along the waterfront, feeling ridiculously content for someone who'd spent the better part of an hour geographically embarrassed.

That evening, back at the resort, I watched the sunset from our balcony with a very cold beer. My partner had spent the afternoon sensibly reading by the pool, and I regaled them with my adventures while they made appropriately sympathetic noises. The thing is, I genuinely believe I saw more interesting corners of that coastline than I would have with a proper plan. The accidental beach, the unexpected churchyard, the aniseed sweet. These are the bits I remember most vividly.

I suppose there's a lesson in there somewhere about embracing chaos, or trusting the process, or perhaps just accepting that some of us will always find cows instead of carparks. I'm not sure I want to learn it, frankly. The getting lost is half the point. Though next time, I might write down the actual address. Just in case.