I should have known the holiday was going to be interesting when my phone decided to send me down a farm track that was definitely not meant for a Vauxhall Corsa. There I was, bumping along between two ditches in Gelderland, convinced I was being clever by avoiding the main road to Bennekom. The sat nav had other ideas. By the time I reversed out past a very unimpressed-looking goat, I'd added twenty minutes to my journey and lost a fair bit of dignity. Still, I told myself, getting lost is all part of the charm.

The cottage itself was one of those traditional Dutch properties you see on the NOVASOL site, tucked down a lane near Bennekom with proper wooden beams and a garden that looked like someone actually enjoyed tending it. I dumped my bags, still slightly rattled from the goat incident, and decided the best cure was a wander without any particular plan. This turned out to be the best decision I made all week.

Bennekom sits in the middle of the Veluwe, that enormous patchwork of forests and heathland that Gelderland is famous for. Everyone talks about the Hoge Veluwe National Park, and fair enough, it is spectacular. But I found my favourite spots purely by accident, usually after taking a wrong turn or following a path that looked vaguely promising. The first discovery came when I wandered down a sandy track behind the cottage, thinking it would loop back to the village. It didn't. Instead it led me to a tiny clearing where someone had placed a single wooden bench facing nothing but birch trees and silence. No signpost, no information board, just a bench and the quiet. I sat there for an hour.

The next morning I got lost properly. I'd set out for what I thought was a marked walking route near the village, missed a turning somewhere, and ended up in a patch of heathland that stretched out like a purple carpet in every direction. I had no phone signal, no map, and for about twenty minutes I genuinely couldn't tell which way was north. Then I spotted a narrow cycle path that looked well-used, followed it through some pine woods, and stumbled out into a hamlet called something I couldn't pronounce. There was a farm shop selling homemade apple syrup and eggs with actual feathers still stuck to them. The woman running it spoke about as much English as I speak Dutch, which is to say practically none, but we managed through pointing and smiling. That apple syrup on my morning toast became a ritual for the rest of the stay.

Later that week I took my bike out with every intention of reaching the nearby village of Ede, about five miles off. I never made it. Somewhere along the way I spotted a narrow path between two fields, completely unmarked, and thought why not. It led to a small lake, more of a pond really, with a rickety jetty and a heron that looked like it owned the place. I lay on that jetty for an afternoon, watching dragonflies skim the surface, feeling rather pleased with myself for being so brilliantly aimless.

The thing about accidentally finding these places is that you can't really tell anyone else how to get there. I tried to retrace my steps to the heathland on my last day and ended up somewhere completely different, another clearing, another unexpected view. That's rather the point, I think. We plan our holidays so thoroughly now, every restaurant booked, every route optimised. There's something quietly rebellious about letting yourself get properly lost, about trusting that a wrong turn in Gelderland will reward you more than a right one.

On my final evening I walked back to that first bench in the birch trees, the one I'd found after the goat incident. I sat there as the light went, thinking about how the best moments of the week had come from not knowing where I was going. The cottage lights were just visible through the trees. I made my way back slowly, deliberately taking the longer path, hoping I might get lost one more time.