I have always believed that the best holidays begin with something going slightly wrong, and our trip to Lignano Sabbiadoro proved no exception. We had flown into Trieste, collected our hire car with the confidence of people who had definitely remembered to download offline maps, and set off south with the sunroof open and spirits high. Somewhere between Latisana and the lagoon, my phone decided that Italian mobile data was merely a suggestion rather than a service. The sat nav blinked out. My partner, ever the optimist, suggested we simply follow signs to the sea. This is how we ended up on a gravel track between two drainage ditches, surrounded by what I can only describe as an aggressive amount of reeds, with a local farmer waving at us with the kind of enthusiasm that clearly meant "turn around, you absolute muppets."

The funny thing about being properly lost in Friuli is that you eventually stop panicking and start noticing. We reversed slowly past the farmer, who by now was laughing openly, and found ourselves on a narrow lane running alongside a canal I later learned was part of the ancient Tagliamento river system. There was no traffic. The only sound came from herons lifting off from the water, and somewhere in the distance, a dog barked with the lazy rhythm of a place that has never heard of rush hour. We passed a small vineyard with a hand-painted sign offering wine by the jug, and a vegetable stall operating on pure honesty - a wooden box for your coins, a note saying "prendi quello che vuoi." Take what you want. We bought tomatoes that actually tasted of something, which in my experience of supermarket produce back home qualifies as a minor miracle.

By the time we stumbled upon our actual destination, the NOVASOL property in Lignano Sabbiadoro, we were two hours late, slightly sunburned, and carrying a bottle of local Refosco that had cost less than a London coffee. The key collection went smoothly enough, though I suspect the agent was used to dishevelled British arrivals with stories of navigational incompetence. The flat itself was exactly what we needed - clean, modern, with a balcony that looked out towards greenery rather than the beachfront crowds we would discover later. But that first evening, we did not rush to the sea. Instead we walked in the opposite direction, towards the pinewood that runs behind the resort town, and found a small trattoria where the owner insisted we try frico, the local cheese and potato dish that I am now slightly obsessed with.

What struck me most about those first twenty-four hours was how accidentally wonderful they had been. The drainage ditches, the laughing farmer, the honesty box tomatoes - none of it featured in any guidebook I had read. Lignano Sabbiadoro itself is known for its golden beach, its orderly rows of umbrellas, its family-friendly promenade. I understand the appeal, and we did spend happy days there. But I keep thinking about that wrong turn, and how close I came to frustration rather than curiosity. There is a particular kind of traveller who treats getting lost as a personal insult, a deviation from the optimised itinerary. I have been that person. I am trying to retire from the position.

The rest of the week brought more accidental discoveries. A cycle path through the lagoon that we found by missing the main road. A swimming spot in the river where locals gathered at sunset, completely invisible from any tourist map. A bakery in a residential street that sold pistachio croissants worth setting an alarm for. Each time, the pattern repeated - slight confusion, mild grumbling, then something unexpected and genuinely good. I am not suggesting that all wrong turns lead to treasure. Some lead to gravel tracks and mocking farmers. But I am learning that the grumbling itself is part of the process, the necessary transition from control to openness.

On our final morning, I woke early and walked back to that first canal, the one from our lost afternoon. The mist was rising off the water, and a man in a small boat was checking fishing nets with the methodical patience of someone who has never considered hurrying. I thought about taking a photograph, then decided against it. Some things resist documentation. They belong properly to the moment you are in, not the memory you might construct later. I walked back to the flat slowly, deliberately wrong-turning through streets I did not recognise, trusting that the sea would eventually orient me. It did, of course. It always does, if you let it.