I should have known the sat nav was up to no good when it tried to send me through what looked like someone's back garden in Stezyca. There I was, halfway down a dirt track, convinced I was being terribly adventurous, only to find a very polite man in wellies pointing me back toward the main road with the kind of patience that suggested I was not the first lost tourist he'd encountered. I reversed with what I hoped looked like confidence and eventually found the proper turning, gravel crunching beneath the wheels as I pulled up to the holiday home.

The first thing that struck me was the hush. Not the awkward, heavy silence of a doctor's waiting room, but the proper, deep quiet of pine forests and still lakes. I stood there with my door half open, one foot on the gravel, just breathing it in. The house itself was modest and welcoming, the sort of place that doesn't try too hard but somehow gets everything right. A wooden porch, slightly weathered, a garden that looked like it had been left to its own devices in the best possible way.

I had planned to unpack properly, perhaps make a cup of tea and consult my list of recommended attractions. Instead, I found myself wandering down a path behind the house that seemed to lead nowhere in particular. The path became narrower, then fainter, then apparently ceased to exist altogether. I was, by any reasonable measure, lost. And rather than panic, I discovered I was grinning like an idiot.

That first afternoon of accidental exploration set the tone for everything that followed. I stumbled upon a tiny clearing where someone had long ago placed a rough wooden bench, facing a pond so still it looked like spilled ink between the trees. No sign explained it, no path led directly to it, and I never found it again despite several attempts. It became my secret, though I suspect half the village probably knows it exists and simply lets visitors believe they've discovered something magical.

The following morning, determined to be more organised, I set out with a map toward what I understood to be a proper Kashubian cultural site. I took a wrong turning almost immediately, found myself on a lane barely wide enough for a bicycle, and ended up at a farm where an elderly woman was selling jars of honey from her kitchen window. We managed a conversation consisting mainly of gestures, smiles, and my terrible attempts at "dzien dobry." She pressed an extra jar of something dark and fragrant into my hands, refusing payment for it, and pointed me toward what she clearly considered the proper direction. I went the way she indicated, then promptly ignored her advice at the first unmarked fork, chasing the sound of water.

The stream led me to a small waterfall, more of an enthusiastic tumble really, where I sat on a rock and ate the bread and cheese I'd packed. A kingfisher darted past, impossibly blue against the brown water, and I felt that particular satisfaction of having absolutely no idea where I was and not minding in the slightest.

By the third day, I'd abandoned any pretence of following plans. The holiday home became my base for deliberate getting-lost, setting out each morning with no destination, taking whichever turning looked least promising. I found a chapel so small it could fit perhaps six people, its wooden walls dark with age and incense. I found a meadow where wild strawberries grew in such profusion that I ate until my fingers were stained red. I found a village shop where the woman behind the counter spoke enough broken English to tell me about the lake nearby, "not for tourists, for fishing," and drew me a map on the back of a receipt that I promptly lost.

Each evening I returned to the house with muddy boots, a slightly sunburned nose, and stories that wouldn't particularly impress anyone else. "I got lost again," I'd say to no one, making my tea, and smile at the absurdity of calling it a complaint.

The mishap with the sat nav on arrival had been a gift, I realised, though not one I'd have accepted willingly. It taught me that my carefully researched itinerary was largely irrelevant, that the best moments of the trip would be the ones I couldn't have planned or anticipated. Kashubia, I discovered, rewards the wandering fool far more generously than the organised traveller. The region doesn't shout its charms; it whispers them down overgrown paths and hides them behind unmarked turns, waiting for someone foolish enough to take the wrong road and fortunate enough to recognise what they've found.

On my final morning, I attempted one last deliberate getting-lost, turning down a lane I'd passed three times already. It delivered me to a viewpoint I'd somehow missed entirely, looking out over forest and scattered lakes, the morning mist still clinging to the lower ground. I stood there thinking about all the places I hadn't seen, the proper attractions with their proper signage, and found I couldn't muster any regret. The holiday home had been the perfect base precisely because it asked nothing of me, made no promises, left me free to fail at navigation and succeed at something far more valuable.

I drove away eventually, following the sat nav's instructions with deep suspicion, and made it to the main road without incident. The jar of honey sat on my passenger seat, and I was already plotting which turning I'd take if I ever came back, which wrong path might lead to something wonderful. Some lessons, it seems, take getting lost to learn properly.