I have never been a natural navigator. Give me a sat nav, a paper map, and a compass, and I will still find a way to end up somewhere I definitely did not plan to be. So when my partner handed me the directions to Sa Creueta de Son Fangos near Manacor, I should have known we were in for an adventure.

The flight into Palma was straightforward enough, and the hire car only had one mysterious stain on the back seat. We set off eastward with the confidence of people who had absolutely no idea what was coming. The main roads were fine. The smaller roads were manageable. Then we hit the lane that supposedly led to our finca, and everything went sideways. Literally, in one case, when I reversed into a ditch trying to let a tractor pass. The farmer waved cheerfully, entirely unbothered by my incompetence, which only made it worse.

We were properly lost by this point. The sat nav had given up and was suggesting we drive into what appeared to be someone's olive grove. My partner was doing that patient breathing thing. I was pretending I had everything under control. Then, rounding a corner we had definitely not been meant to take, we stumbled upon the most extraordinary little place. A tiny bakery, if you could even call it that, operating out of what looked like a converted garage. The smell of ensaimadas hit us before we even stopped the car. An elderly woman was pulling trays from a wood-fired oven, and she did not seem remotely surprised to see two bewildered tourists. We bought two still-warm pastries and ate them sitting on a wall, dust from my ditch escapade still on my shoes. They were the best I have ever tasted.

Properly fuelled, we somehow found the actual turn to Sa Creueta de Son Fangos. The finca itself is beautiful in that unpretentious, solid-stone way that Majorcan country houses have. Terracotta floors, wooden beams thick enough to swing from, a pool that catches the afternoon light perfectly. But I will be honest, those first hours were coloured by our accidental detour. We kept grinning at each other like we had uncovered a secret.

The next morning, determined to recreate our success, we set out with no particular plan. This is not like me. I am normally the person who researches restaurants for weeks. But something about getting lost the day before had loosened something. We drove down lanes that grew progressively narrower, until we were brushing past wild fennel and wondering if we would ever reverse out. That is how we found the abandoned talaia, one of those ancient watchtowers dotting the eastern coast. No signs, no car park, no other visitors. Just a crumbling stone tower you could climb for views across farmland to the distant sea. We sat up there for an hour, watching a kestrel hover, feeling smug in a way that only accidental discovery allows.

Lunch that day came from another wrong turn, this time into a village that barely registered on any map. A bar with three tables, serving pa amb oli so simple and perfect it made me rethink every overcomplicated meal I have ever ordered. The owner spoke no English, my Spanish is embarrassing, and we communicated mainly through pointing and enthusiastic nodding. It was genuinely one of the best afternoons of the holiday.

By day three, we were actively seeking wrong turns. It became a running joke. "Shall we get properly lost today?" my partner would ask over coffee. We found a tiny cove south of Cala Morlanda, not the famous beaches but a rocky inlet where locals were fishing and swimming in equal measure. We found a vineyard selling wine from the garage, honest-to-goodness garage wine, that we drank on our terrace that evening feeling terribly pleased with ourselves.

There is something particular about Majorca's interior and eastern coast that rewards this approach. The tourist bits are obvious and easy, but the lanes between Manacor and the sea hold these pockets of ordinary magic. A field of almond blossom you were not expecting. A roadside stall with oranges still warm from the tree. A village festival we crashed entirely by accident, joining a circle of locals dancing some traditional step we absolutely did not know, laughing at our own clumsiness.

I think what struck me most was how welcoming these accidental discoveries felt. No one seemed irritated by our presence, our bad Spanish, our obvious confusion. There was a generosity to it that I have not always found in more obviously touristed places. Maybe because we were clearly not following any script. Maybe because getting lost strips away that performative tourist thing, leaves you more vulnerable and more open.

Our finca, Sa Creueta de Son Fangos, became the perfect base for this approach. Comfortable enough to feel like a proper retreat, rural enough that every expedition started with genuine uncertainty about where we might end up. I would sit by that pool in the evenings, tired from accidental hiking, slightly sunburned from that cove we found, and feel a contentment that planned perfection has never quite given me.

On our last day, we tried to find that first bakery again. Failed completely, despite what felt like hours of searching. My partner found this hilarious. I pretended to be annoyed but secretly loved it. Some things should stay lost, stay accidental, stay yours alone in memory. That is the thing about getting lost properly. You do not always get to repeat it. You just have to be grateful it happened at all.