I have always believed that the best holidays begin with a small disaster, and our trip to Rogowo on the Polish Baltic coast did not disappoint. We had been driving for what felt like twelve hours from Gdansk, though the satnav insisted it was barely ninety minutes, when I made the executive decision to ignore its final instruction. "Turn left onto a dirt track," it said. I saw what looked like a more promising road and went straight on. Ten minutes later we were staring at a potato field and a very unimpressed farmer. My partner gave me that look. You know the one. The one that says "I love you but I will be bringing this up at dinner parties for the next decade."

We eventually found the place, a charming little holiday home tucked among pine trees just a short stroll from the beach. The sort of spot where you half expect to find a family of deer having breakfast on your porch. I bounded out of the car, full of that particular energy that comes from finally escaping a vehicle after too long, and promptly walked into a low-hanging branch. My partner laughed so hard she had to sit down on the suitcase. I rubbed my forehead and decided this was going to be that kind of holiday. The honest kind.

The house itself was simple and spot on. Wooden exterior, decent little kitchen, and a terrace that caught the afternoon sun perfectly. We dumped our bags and did what any sensible person would do after a journey like ours. We went for a walk. The path from the property led through a belt of coastal forest, all sandy soil and twisted pines, and then suddenly opened onto the beach. The Baltic stretched out in that particular grey-blue it does so well, and I felt my shoulders drop about three inches. This was why we had come.

Our plan, hatched over too many coffees back in Leeds, had been ambitious. We would walk the coastal path every day, covering serious ground, building up to a big hike towards Jaroslawiec. We had proper boots, moisture-wicking socks, the lot. I had even downloaded a walking app that tracked elevation, as if the Baltic coast were the Himalayas. The first morning we set off full of purpose, following a trail that wound along the cliff tops east of Rogowo. The views were tremendous, all shifting sand dunes and the occasional fishing boat on the horizon. We walked for two hours, smug with our own outdoorsiness, before the weather turned.

Polish coastal weather, we discovered, does not announce itself politely. One moment the sky was doing its best impression of a reasonable summer day. The next, a wind arrived from somewhere near Scandinavia that made me understand why the Vikings kept going elsewhere. We were still two miles from the house. The temperature dropped ten degrees in as many minutes. My expensive breathable jacket turned out to be breathable in both directions, which was not the feature I needed at that moment. We squelched back through a sudden downpour, me muttering about checking forecasts, my partner mercifully too busy laughing to say "I told you so."

That evening, huddled in the house with tea and something warming from the local shop, we recalibrated. The weather app became my most consulted relationship. We learned to walk early, before the afternoon winds gathered their strength. We learned to pack a proper waterproof despite the morning sunshine. Most importantly, we learned to treat the coast with the respect it clearly demanded.

The walks that followed were better for this humility. One morning we set off before seven, the light all soft and golden, and covered a glorious stretch of beach where the only other souls were a couple of fishermen who nodded at us like we were part of some secret early-rising club. Another day we explored the paths around Lake Koprowo, inland from the coast, where the pine forest gave way to reeds and the strange stillness of freshwater meeting salt air nearby.

There was a particular afternoon, the sun actually holding its ground, when we walked west towards the more developed strip near Darlowo. We stopped at a beach bar that consisted of little more than a shack and some plastic chairs, and ate fried fish so fresh it practically introduced itself. My partner, who had been sceptical about a self-catering holiday in Poland, admitted over her second beer that she might have been wrong. I did not write this down, but I remember the moment. Some victories are too precious to document.

The weather never fully behaved, of course. On our second-to-last day we attempted a longer loop that would have taken us through the nature reserve and back along the beach. We made it halfway before a fog rolled in so thick I could barely see my own feet on the sand. We turned back, no longer frustrated, simply accepting. There is something about walking in fog by the sea that strips away your illusions of control. You are small, the world is large, and the best you can do is keep putting one foot in front of the other until you find somewhere warm.

Back at the house that evening, drying socks on the radiator and planning our final walk for the morning, I caught myself feeling genuinely grateful for the mishaps. The wrong turn in the car, the branch to the forehead, the weather that refused to cooperate. Without them, we would have marched through the days ticking off routes, measuring success in kilometres covered. Instead we had slowed down, paid attention, adapted. The holiday became about the walking we actually did, not the walking we had planned.

Our final morning brought perfect conditions, almost mockingly so. We walked a short stretch of coast near the property, nowhere ambitious, just enough to say goodbye to the particular smell of pine and salt that had become familiar. I did not walk into any branches. The satnav, when we finally left, directed us correctly back to the main road. My partner drove. I checked the map like a nervous co-pilot, still not entirely trusted after the potato field incident.

Some holidays give you exactly what you expect. Others, like Rogowo, give you what you need, disguised as minor calamity. I would go back tomorrow. Though I might pack a better jacket, and I would definitely listen to the satnav. Probably.