I have never been so relieved to see a goat in my entire life. There I was, trundling down a dusty track in our hire car, convinced we had driven clean off the edge of civilisation, when this magnificent creature with magnificent horns and an even more magnificent beard stared at us from a stone wall. My partner Dave was gripping the steering wheel like he was landing a plane in a hurricane. "Satnav says we're close," he said, in that tight voice people use when they absolutely do not believe the satnav.

We had flown into Athens, collected our little Fiat that smelled faintly of ouzo and optimism, and pointed it south toward the Peloponnese. The plan was simple: find our holiday home in Ermioni, collapse by the pool, drink something cold. What actually happened was that I confidently directed Dave down what I can only describe as a donkey path, based on my expert reading of Google Maps. "It's a shortcut," I announced, with the misplaced authority of someone who once found a good route to Tesco.

Forty minutes of increasingly creative Greek swearing from Dave later, we emerged onto an actual road with actual signs, and there was Ermioni proper. A proper fishing village with proper fishing boats, all painted in that impossible Mediterranean blue that makes British seaside colours look like someone left them in the wash too long.

Our first proper conversation was with Kostas, who managed the property. He emerged from a neighbouring house wiping motor oil from his hands, which I later learned was his permanent state of being. "You took the scenic route," he said, laughing so hard his whole belly shook. He had this magnificent moustache that seemed to have its own independent existence, and he spoke English in a way that made everything sound like a proverb your grandmother might offer. "The road that is difficult," he told us, heaving our suitcase up the steps, "makes the wine taste sweeter." I liked him immediately.

Kostas introduced us to his wife Maria, who appeared with a plate of something warm and honey-drenched before I had even found the kitchen. She spoke almost no English, but communicated through a complex system of gestures, raised eyebrows, and occasional gentle slaps on my arm when I attempted to help with anything. "No, no," she would say, slapping my reaching hand away from the washing up, then feeding me another spoonful of something delicious. It was like being scolded and cuddled simultaneously.

That first evening, we wandered down to the harbour for dinner, still slightly dazed from our journey. A fisherman called Spiros, who must have been seventy if he was a day, waved us over to inspect his catch with the pride of a man showing off grandchildren. "Octopus," he said, holding one up so it dangled dramatically. "Very clever. Too clever. That is why we eat them." He found this hilarious. His friend Dimitri, who ran the taverna next door, came out to argue about whether the octopus was indeed too clever, or whether Spiros was simply too slow to catch the clever ones. This debate had apparently been running for several decades.

We ate grilled sardines that tasted of actual sea, not the vague fish-adjacent flavour I was used to, and watched Kostas appear from somewhere to join a table of men playing cards with the intensity of international poker. Maria found me watching and rolled her eyes with the universal expression of women everywhere who have watched men do unnecessary competitive things.

Lying in bed that night, listening to distant bouzouki music and the occasional goat complaint, I thought about how completely wrong my shortcut had been, and how completely right everything else felt. Sometimes the wrong road takes you exactly where you need to be.