I have always believed that the best holidays begin with a minor disaster, and our drive to Borgo San Dalmazzo in Piedmont did not disappoint. My partner had entrusted me with navigation, a decision we would both come to regret. Somewhere between Turin and our final destination, I managed to confuse two identically named roundabouts and sent us hurtling towards what I can only describe as an aggressive vineyard. The sat nav, in its infinite wisdom, recalculated us through a series of lanes barely wider than a determined cat, and we arrived at the property forty minutes late, slightly traumatised, and with a rental Fiat that now smelled distinctly of clutch.

The owners, a charming couple called Marco and Luisa, simply laughed and handed us a glass of local Arneis. "First time in Piedmont?" Marco asked, though I suspect he already knew the answer. We stood there on the terrace, clutching our wine, watching the late afternoon light settle over the surrounding hills, and I felt that particular humiliation that comes from realising your complete incompetence has somehow delivered you somewhere rather wonderful.

Borgo San Dalmazzo itself is the sort of place that reveals itself slowly. Our apartment occupied part of a converted stone farmhouse, all beamed ceilings and slightly wonky floors that creaked with what I chose to interpret as character rather than structural concern. Luisa showed us around with the patience of someone who has watched countless urban Britons marvel at functional shutters and outdoor drying racks. I nodded enthusiastically at everything, privately wondering if I would ever master the coffee maker, which looked like it might have been designed by NASA.

That first evening, determined to redeem myself after the navigation fiasco, I suggested we explore on foot without consulting any map. My partner, still nursing a grudge about the vineyard incident, agreed with the particular enthusiasm that suggests they are expecting further entertainment at my expense. We wandered down a track behind the property, through hazelnut groves that Luisa had mentioned in passing, and promptly got ourselves magnificently lost within twenty minutes.

The path forked, then forked again, and soon we were surrounded by nothing but trees and the occasional suspicious glance from a local dog. I was preparing my defence when we stumbled upon a tiny chapel, barely larger than a garden shed, its door hanging open to reveal a single candle burning inside. There was no sign, no indication it existed on any tourist itinerary, just this perfect little stone building tucked among the hazelnuts with a view down the valley that made me actually stop talking for once.

We sat on the wall outside, sharing the last of some biscuits we had pocketed from the apartment, and I found myself thinking about how rarely I allow myself to be lost. Every holiday planned to the minute, every restaurant researched and reviewed, every moment optimised for maximum experience. And here we were, completely by accident, in a place no one had told us to find, eating slightly crushed biscuits in the presence of a mystery candle, and it was absolutely the highlight of the entire trip.

The walk back took another hour of wrong turns and increasingly confident guesses. We passed an elderly man tending vegetables in a garden that seemed to exist without any corresponding house. He waved us through a gate that saved us probably another forty minutes of wandering. We never learned his name, never properly thanked him, just exchanged the sort of gesture that feels perfectly sufficient between strangers in the countryside.

By the time we found Borgo San Dalmazzo again, the sun had properly set and Marco was lighting the terrace lamps. He raised an eyebrow at our dishevelment but said nothing, simply poured more wine and asked if we had enjoyed our walk. I told him about the chapel, and he nodded as though everyone accidentally discovered it eventually, which perhaps they do.

That night I slept better than I had in months, the wonky floor and unfamiliar coffee maker completely forgotten, already plotting our next deliberate attempt at getting lost.