I am the opposite of one of those Kalahari Bushmen in "The Gods Must Be Crazy" (they have a famously good sense of direction). Getting lost became part of my daily routine during my recent visit to Dylan Thomas' homeland, Wales: Wake up, eat large breakfast, get terribly lost, etc.

If you looked at a map, you would notice that the Irish Sea runs along three sides of Wales. I was at the tippy-top -- in Bangor -- hiking alongside the coast. Seemingly it would be difficult to get lost when walking next to the sea, but my level of stupidity is high-octane.

Rather than pay attention to landmarks or signs, my mind began to wander.

"Why is it that they make those DayQuil packs so hard to get into?" I was thinking to myself. "They're a challenge for a healthy person to open! Then the packet taunts you with 'If difficult to open, use scissors.' It's like a challenge to one's manhood: 'Use scissors, you pansy sissy-boy,' is what it should say. Besides, you carry DayQuil in the day. Who also carries scissors?"

Suddenly it was dark. I had no idea where the sea was, and I was walking through what I thought was quaint suburbia. Fortunately, I had my secret weapon: the American accent.

When traveling in Britain and lost, your American accent says to everyone: "I am stupid. You will need to speak slowly, point, draw maps, and possibly even drive me there yourself."

Also working in my favor was the fact that my hotel was right next to a major landmark.

"Excuse me," I said to a man fixing his car. "I seem to have gotten a bit turned around. Can you point me toward Victoria Pier?"

"Victoria Pier? In Bangor?" he asked.

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His tone was disconcerting. Imagine if you were in Rockford, Ill., and you asked someone for walking directions to Disneyland, and they said, "Disneyland? In Anaheim?" What I had mistaken for quaint suburbia was, in fact, a quaint village.

"Walk that way, until you run into a castle; turn right; walk straight on," he said, pointing. "If your feet get wet, that means you're in the bay. Just keep alongside it until you reach the pier -- it's several miles on."

A few days later I was better prepared. Hiking in the hills and mountains outside of Conwy, I had brought a map along with me. Again, I spotted the sea.

Unfortunately, the sea was not on my map.

This time I was saved by Welshman Dave Bathers and his dog, Molly. Dave is an environmental lawyer who spends a lot of time in Kazakhstan, "helping to bring them into the 19th century." He spends his free time delivering wheelchairs to Serbian children and healing the blind in tiny African nations.

Who else would I run into on a Welsh hillside?

As luck would have it, he was also headed to St. Celynin Church, and agreed to take me on as a walking partner. Good thing -- not surprisingly, I had been pointed in entirely the wrong direction.

He and I chatted in and out of Welsh as we went on our way.

"You'll like this church," Dave said. "It was built in the 13th century, and they have the most amazing sledge. What's interesting is that you would not really know it to be a sledge just by looking at it."

"Ooh," I said, trying to hide the fact that I don't know what a sledge is.

Dave turned out to be a great guide. He told me all about the church, and the surrounding area, and took time to point out interesting things along the way.

"You see those furrows there? Obviously, you would never do such a thing in modern times -- they date back to before Christ was born," he said.

"Ooh," I said, trying to hide the fact that I don't know what a furrow is, either.

When we arrived at St. Celynin, we found a large iron gate, padlocked, blocking our way in. It wasn't surprising to me that a 13th century church should be gated-off, but Dave was clearly upset.

"You would have really liked the sledge. It's fascinating," he said.

To make up for it, we walked down to the village of Rowen for a pint. In Welsh, "Rowen" must mean, "Tiny village full of really pretty women who speak Welsh." Dave and I propped ourselves next to a coal fire in the village's only pub and agreed that it was difficult not to just sit there grinning like idiots.

Dave's wife, Michele, is a teacher at a nearby ysgol feithren (nursery school) and she soon arrived to have a glass of wine as we nursed our pints of bitter. Dave explained how we had bumped into each other on the way to St. Celynin.

"Oh! Did you see the sledge?" Michele asked.

"No, it's all gated-off," Dave said.

"Yes. Vandals apparently," Michele said. "But all you have to do is ask the nearby farmer for the key. He'll let you in."

"Excellent. Next time you're here, you and your wife can stay with us, and we'll get back there, and you can see the sledge," Dave told me.

That must be one hell of a sledge -- I'm really looking forward to it. And all because I can't read a map. Sometimes not knowing where you are is exactly where you want to be.

Chris Cope is married, with no children. His column appears every other Tuesday.