I should have known the Sat Nav was up to no good the moment it tried to send me down what looked like a farmer's private drive. There I was, halfway to Liege, convinced I was having a lovely scenic tour of rural Belgium, when the penny finally dropped. I'd missed the proper turning by a good twenty minutes, all because I was too busy singing along to some dreadful eighties playlist and not paying attention to the actual road. Classic me, really.

The Baraque de Fraiture itself sits in the Hautes Fagnes area, not far from the village of Fraiture, and by the time I actually found the place I was absolutely bursting for the loo and in no mood for further adventure. The property is one of those traditional Belgian holiday homes, all wooden beams and proper rustic charm, and I practically fell out of the car with my dignity in tatters. Of course, the key safe decided to be awkward at precisely that moment. I stood there in the drizzle, jabbing numbers into a little metal box while muttering things I shan't repeat, convinced I'd written the code down wrong. Turns out I was simply holding the instructions upside down. Brilliant.

Stepping inside for the first time, though, that little surge of relief washed over me. The place smelled of wood and something faintly citrusy from the cleaning products, and despite my frazzled state I found myself grinning like an idiot. The living area opens up with these lovely high ceilings and that distinctive timber framing you get in proper Ardennes properties. I dumped my bags with absolutely no grace whatsoever and immediately went on the hunt for the kettle. Priorities, you understand.

The kitchen's one of those compact but surprisingly well-equipped setups, and I made myself the most restorative cup of tea known to humanity while peering out at the garden. Even in my slightly bedraggled condition, I could appreciate the quiet. No traffic noise, no neighbours having loud barbecues, just the odd bird and the wind moving through the trees. Rather magical, actually, once I'd stopped huffing about the Sat Nav.

I had a proper wander about, as you do when you first arrive somewhere. The bedrooms are upstairs under the eaves, all sloping ceilings and creaky floorboards that make you feel like you're in a proper storybook cottage. I managed to whack my head on a beam within approximately thirty seconds, which felt entirely on brand for this particular trip. There's a wood burner in the lounge that I immediately decided was my new best friend, despite having absolutely no idea how to light the thing properly. I made a mental note to figure that out before evening, or risk looking a complete fool in front of absolutely nobody but myself.

The bathroom situation deserves mention because I was genuinely chuffed to find a decent shower with actual water pressure. Small victories after a day of travel chaos. I stood under it for far longer than environmentally responsible, letting the hot water sort out my shoulders and my mood in roughly equal measure.

By the time I'd unpacked the essentials and found a local beer I'd thoughtfully purchased at a service station, I was starting to feel rather pleased with myself. The mishaps of arrival were already becoming funny rather than frustrating, which is the thing about travelling alone I suppose. Nobody else saw me arguing with a key safe or taking the scenic route via every back lane in eastern Belgium. The quiet of the Baraque de Fraiture was doing its work, and I sat with my feet up, beer in hand, already plotting which of the local walking routes I'd attempt once I'd recovered from my own incompetence.

There's something rather lovely about that first evening in a new place, when the stress of getting there melts into contentment and the holiday proper begins. I raised my glass to the empty room, to the beams I'd no doubt hit my head on again, and to whatever small adventures tomorrow might bring.