I have never been brilliant with directions, so trusting me to navigate the winding roads of the Mani Peninsula was, in hindsight, a spectacular error of judgement. My partner handed me the keys at Kalamata airport with a confidence I absolutely did not deserve, and two hours later we were hopelessly lost somewhere between Stoupa and Kardamyli, arguing about whether the goat blocking the road was a sign we should turn back.

The goat won. We reversed.

The mishap that truly defines our arrival, though, happened twenty minutes from our destination. I had been boasting about my "instinctive navigation" when I confidently turned onto what I insisted was a shortcut. It was a driveway. Not just any driveway, but one belonging to an elderly gentleman who was, at that precise moment, enjoying his afternoon coffee in nothing but a pair of swimming trunks and a formidable moustache. I reversed straight into his olive tree. The crunch was deafening. He did not even flinch. Just raised his cup in what I choose to believe was solidarity rather than mockery.

When we finally limped into Proastio, the tiny hamlet above Kardamyli, I was ready to abandon the hire car and possibly myself. Then we found our stone house tucked into the hillside, and something shifted. The terrace overlooked the Messenian Gulf with that particular blue that makes you suspect the Greeks have a secret colour they do not export. I stood there, still vibrating with embarrassment, and laughed for the first time since the goat.

The next morning, determined to redeem myself, I proposed we "just wander." My partner's expression suggested this was how we had ended up with the olive tree incident, but off we went. Proastio itself is barely more than a cluster of houses and a church with a rusted bell, so wandering felt genuinely directionless. We took a path that looked like it led somewhere purposeful and within ten minutes were in an olive grove that clearly belonged to someone who had not expected visitors. We pressed on, because that is what you do when you are too awkward to retreat.

The grove opened onto a ridge we never would have found deliberately. Below us lay a cove so small it did not appear on our map, just a curve of shingle and turquoise water with a single fishing boat pulled ashore. No taverna, no sun loungers, not even a bin. We scrambled down, half sliding on scree, and spent three hours there without seeing another person. I swam out to a rock and sat like a bedraggled seal, feeling absurdly pleased with myself for getting us lost.

That became the pattern. Each day we set out with vague intentions and found places by accident. A freshwater spring bubbling from a cliff face, where we filled our bottles and drank colder water than any shop sells. A ruined tower house, one of the Mani's famous defensive structures, accessible only because we followed a donkey track that petered out into nothing. The donkey regarded us with profound indifference. We ate our packed lunch on its roofless upper floor, surrounded by wild thyme and the distant sound of bells from unseen goats.

My favourite discovery came from a wrong turn on what I thought was the coastal path to Kardamyli. We ended up in a village called Ritsa, which I cannot locate now on any detailed map. An old woman was beating rugs against a wall, and when she saw us looking hopelessly about, she gestured us into her courtyard without a word. She fed us spoon sweets made from bitter oranges and water from a well she claimed was older than her grandmother. Her English consisted of "yes" and "good," my Greek of "thank you" and embarrassed smiling. It was one of the best conversations I have ever had.

By the end of the week, I stopped pretending I had any control over our wandering. The relief was enormous. We found a bakery in Kardamyli that only locals seemed to know, tucked down an alley behind the main road, by following a man carrying an empty flour sack. We discovered a swimming spot where the water deepened suddenly from turquoise to dark blue, perfect for jumping from rocks, because I tripped on a path and nearly fell in headfirst.

The stone house in Proastio became our anchor, the place we returned to with scraped knees and stories. Evenings on that terrace, watching the light change over the Taygetos mountains, I would trace our accidental routes on a creased map and marvel at how little we had planned and how much we had found. The hire car remained dented, a permanent reminder of my limitations. I grew fond of it.

On our final morning, I tried to find that first hidden cove again, deliberately this time. I failed completely. The olive grove looked different, the paths forked differently, and I ended up somewhere else entirely, another small beach I had not seen before. My partner just shook their head and started unpacking the picnic. I sat on unfamiliar stones and laughed at myself, properly, for the first time in years. Some places, I think, only let you in when you are not trying to find them.