I have always believed that the best family holidays begin with a small disaster, and our trip to Burg Reuland in Liege, Belgium, proved this theory beyond doubt. We had been on the road from Calais for about three hours when my wife asked whether I had remembered to pack the charging cables. I had not. I had, however, packed three different types of coffee maker and a fondue set that we have used precisely once since 2019. Priorities, as they say.

The mishap proper occurred as we finally navigated the winding roads of the Ardennes and spotted our destination. Burg Reuland is not, strictly speaking, a castle in the Disney sense, though the name rather suggests one. It is a handsome stone holiday home with proper character, the sort of place that makes you feel slightly more sophisticated than you actually are. I was busy feeling sophisticated, pointing out architectural features to the children, when I failed to notice the rather steep gravel incline leading to the parking area. The crunch of our front bumper meeting a hidden rock was, in retrospect, the true beginning of our holiday. My wife gave me that look. You know the one. The children found it hilarious, which helped not at all.

We emerged somewhat chastened into the fresh country air, and I must say that first impression of the property itself did much to restore my mood. The stone exterior has that satisfying solidity that modern builds simply cannot replicate. You feel the weight of the place, the sense that it has seen generations come and go with their own minor vehicular embarrassments. The surrounding gardens were properly unkempt in that deliberate Belgian way, wildflowers doing their thing alongside established trees that clearly predate any living relative I can name.

The interior hit that sweet spot between rustic charm and actual functionality. I have stayed in enough holiday rentals to know that "character" often translates to "drafty with alarming electrics." Not so here. The beamed ceilings and wooden floors delivered atmosphere without sacrificing the crucial ability to charge a phone, albeit with our newly purchased cable from a petrol station twenty miles back. The living area opened out with enough space for the children to immediately establish territorial claims over various seating arrangements, while the kitchen promised actual cooking rather than the usual holiday pretence.

What struck me most, wandering through those first hours, was the quiet. Proper rural quiet, not the anxious silence of isolation but the peaceful kind that lets you hear your own thoughts for once. The children, temporarily stunned by the journey and perhaps the novelty, actually sat at the kitchen table drawing rather than demanding screens. My wife and I shared a beer from the local shop in Reuland village, a short stroll away, and found ourselves talking about nothing in particular in that way that busy parents forget to do.

I suppose that is the gentle reflection that our bumper incident forced upon me. I had been so focused on arriving, on executing the plan, that I had nearly missed the transition into actually being there. The rock, the crunch, the mockery from the back seats, it all slowed me down just enough to notice the light through those old windows, the smell of wood and stone, the particular quality of Belgian countryside air that makes you breathe deeper without deciding to.

By evening we had established our rhythms. The children claimed bedrooms with the strategic seriousness of generals dividing territory. I cooked a simple pasta while my wife worked out the peculiarities of the heating system. We ate together at the large table, talked over each other, spilled sauce, laughed at my parking, and felt genuinely glad to be nowhere else at all.

That first day set the tone for what followed, not because everything went smoothly, but because it did not, and we adjusted accordingly. The cottage asked nothing of us but presence. We gave it that, more or less willingly, and it returned the favour with space enough to be a family at our own slightly chaotic pace.