I should have known the holiday was going to be interesting when the sat nav decided Mikolajki did not exist. There we were, trundling through Masuria in our hire car, me insisting the lake district was "definitely round here somewhere" while my other half silently questioned every life choice that had led to this moment. The roads got narrower, the pine trees got thicker, and then suddenly we were on a dirt track facing a very unimpressed-looking goat.

Turns out I had typed the wrong coordinates. Not slightly wrong, you understand. Wrong enough that we had a forty-five minute detour through what I can only describe as "properly rural Poland," complete with a farmer who found our predicament so amusing he actually wiped a tear from his eye while giving directions.

When we finally found the actual property, tucked among birch trees with glimpses of Mikolajskie Lake shimmering through, I felt that particular mix of relief and foolishness that seems to define my holidays. The wooden cabin sat there looking impossibly charming, all rustic beams and a terrace that practically begged for a morning coffee. I promptly tripped on the step carrying our bags, which felt like the appropriate way to announce our arrival.

The first evening, still slightly disorientated from our unintended tour of the Polish countryside, we decided to walk before we could do any more damage with technology. We wandered down a path near the lake without any particular plan, which is how we stumbled upon a tiny jetty where an elderly man was quietly fishing. He nodded at us, we nodded back, and somehow this wordless exchange felt like being let in on a secret. The sunset turned the water the colour of old copper, and I found myself thinking that getting lost might be the whole point of places like this.

The next morning, determined to continue our accidental approach, we set off on bicycles with a map we had found in the cabin drawer. The map appeared to predate several important historical events, which only added to the adventure. Within twenty minutes we were hopelessly off any marked trail, bumping along a forest track that grew progressively more overgrown. I was mentally composing my apology for ruining the holiday when the trees opened up and there was a clearing with a wooden shelter, a rough table, and the remnants of what looked like a communal gathering spot. A hand-painted sign suggested it was used by local mushroom pickers. No one was there. We sat on the splintery bench and ate the bread and cheese we had packed, feeling like explorers who had discovered something that was not meant for tourists.

That became our pattern over the days that followed. The deliberate getting lost, I mean, not the falling over. We found a tiny beach where locals swam, marked by nothing more than a gap in the reeds and a few weathered loungers that looked like they had been there since the seventies. We pedalled down lanes that seemed to lead nowhere and ended at a farm gate where a woman sold us fresh eggs and tried to explain, through elaborate gestures, that her chickens were "very happy chickens." I believed her. They tasted like chickens with excellent self-esteem.

There was the morning we took a wrong turning after a rainstorm and found ourselves at a lakeside bar that appeared to be constructed entirely from repurposed boat parts. The owner spoke no English, we spoke approximately twelve words of Polish between us, and yet somehow we spent three hours there, drinking something local and herbal that he insisted was "for health," eating smoked fish that had been caught that morning, and communicating in the universal language of pointing and laughing at our own incompetence.

I think what struck me most was how these unplanned moments revealed a Masuria that felt untouched by the usual machinery of tourism. The glossy brochures will tell you about the main lake promenade, the boat trips, the established attractions. They are fine, I am sure. But they cannot give you the particular pleasure of rounding a corner on a dusty track and finding a wooden chapel with a shrine to the Black Madonna, candles still burning, left by someone who will probably never know you saw it.

On our final evening, we got lost one last time. The sun was dropping, we were cycling back from what had turned into a six-hour expedition, and we took a path that looked familiar but absolutely was not. It led us through a stand of ancient oak trees to a small rise overlooking three lakes at once, the water darkening as the light failed, the first stars appearing, and somewhere in the distance the sound of someone playing an accordion with more enthusiasm than skill.

We stood there in the gathering dark, slightly worried about finding our way back, mostly unwilling to leave. I thought about the goat, the farmer's tears of laughter, my undignified arrival at the cabin. The whole holiday had been a series of small mishaps that had opened doors to things we could never have planned.

We did eventually find our way back, by the way. Another farmer, another set of gestures, another story to add to the collection. That is the thing about getting lost in Masuria. You always find something better than what you were looking for.