Maps make little sense to me. I try to use them but they make my head spin

All my life, I’ve been getting lost. It’s a wonder that somehow, I managed to find my way down the birth canal, but even then, I have a sneaking suspicion that forceps might have been involved. I have developed many strategies to hide this failing from others. When planning a trip, I always work out how long the journey will take and leave an hour earlier. I make reconnaissance journeys to make sure that I can find locations.

There may be a hereditary aspect to this issue. My mother hated being asked for directions.

Once, I witnessed her pretending to be a stranger in her own townland to avoid having to give guidance despite having lived there for most of her adult life. But she did him a favour – if he had followed her instructions, he could have landed in the Atlantic Ocean.

I have pretended to be sick to get out of going to certain venues, as the thought of trying to get there makes me dizzy with fear. I have pretended to have punctures and rescued lost kittens to explain being two hours late to meet a friend whose home I have visited many times.

The furthest I have gone out of my way was 80km. On that occasion, I attempted to work out where I went wrong and made what I took to be logical course corrections, only to end up in the next county. Thank God I don’t live in mainland Europe, or who knows where I might end up?

When lost, I stop at filling stations and shops to ask for assistance, where I receive detailed directions. This is when my brain, overwhelmed by information, freezes. I manage to note the first turn and then hail someone and enquire again. I once visited four filling stations for directions before, in desperation, I flagged down a postman who obligingly let me follow him. I have a soft spot for postal workers – they have saved me many times from an eternity of wrong turns.

My problem is exacerbated by my inability to tell my right from my left. Belonging as I do to a certain generation where we were taught the correct way to bless ourselves, I habitually do this to work out where my right is. Many people witnessing this think me either pious or odd.

Before the advent of Google Maps, life was very difficult. I joke about this, but the number of times I have sobbed in my car because I couldn’t find my way to some important event, knowing I couldn’t confess that I had gotten lost again.

The sign for a road diversion makes my heart sink as any deviation from a route I imprinted on my brain makes me sick with anxiety. Satellite navigation in the car is no help because it keeps redirecting me back to the diverted route. I practice breathing techniques to keep calm and reason things out, but I can’t; my brain doesn’t work that way.

I have now come up with a new strategy, which has an 80 per cent success rate. Basically, it works on the premise that whatever I think is the correct way to go, I go the opposite way.

The look of incredulity on the faces of people when I own up to being lost is humiliating. I have laughingly told people that I was dropped on my head as a baby to explain this weird inability to navigate my world. Well-meaning friends have lectured me on paying attention to my surroundings or, best of all, using a map. Maps make little sense to me. I try to use them, but they make my head spin. It’s like trying to read through distorted glass.

My husband, who has a good sense of direction, learned the hard way not to ask me to navigate when we go on journeys. He once asked how far it was to the next turn, and I replied in all seriousness, ‘about a half an inch’. He wrenched the map from my sweaty grasp, ending my navigator days.

I hid my embarrassing affliction from my children for years, but even they began to suspect when I kept turning the wrong way after coming out of shops and getting lost on days out. They didn’t fall for my excuse that I wanted to explore different roads and laneways to explain all the detours.

I walk my dogs frequently, usually in the same area, but I keep getting lost. Once, I took a slightly different route and got hopelessly confused.

The dogs were no help; they just enjoyed the extra-long outing. Eventually, I got home, relieved and exhausted.

Research into this topic has introduced me to a world of geographically confused fellow travellers. Finally, I have found my tribe.

From now on, I’m just going to smile when I get lost and ease off on the judgment. So, you never know what will get me home first – the ancient art of smoke signals or the modern marvel of GPS. But one thing’s for sure: the journey will be an adventure!