The drive from Calais to Liege had been going suspiciously well, which in my experience is always a warning sign. Three hours of smooth motorway, a lovely playlist, and even the dog behaving himself in the back. Then, precisely seventeen minutes from our destination, my phone decided this would be the perfect moment to die, taking Google Maps with it and leaving me at a roundabout with roughly six identical exits and absolutely no clue which one led to Steffeshausen.

I chose wrong. Obviously. Twice, actually. The second wrong turn deposited us down a farm track so narrow that I spent ten minutes reversing past a very judgmental-looking herd of cows, who clearly found the whole spectacle deeply entertaining. By the time we finally spotted the stone cottage huddled beneath bare February trees, I was ready to kiss the gravel driveway.

February in the Ardennes is not what you'd call glamorous. The garden was brown and soggy, the flower beds reduced to muddy rectangles waiting for spring, and the whole valley had that particular shade of grey that makes you wonder if the sun has permanently relocated to southern Spain. But stepping out of the car into the sharp, damp air, I caught that unmistakable smell of woodsmoke and wet earth that somehow felt exactly right.

The cottage itself looked properly settled into winter. Thick stone walls, small windows designed for keeping heat in rather than views out, and a curl of smoke from the chimney that promised someone had at least got the heating going. Our host had left the key under a flowerpot that contained nothing but a single frozen leaf and what I chose to believe was decorative moss.

Inside, the contrast was glorious. The place was warm in that slightly overenthusiastic way of rural heating systems, all radiators clanking and the wood burner in the corner already reducing yesterday's logs to glowing embers. The low ceilings and dark wooden beams made it feel like we'd stumbled into a particularly cosy burrow. I immediately understood why people come here in winter rather than waiting for the obvious summer appeal. There was something deliciously defensive about it, a little fortress against the season.

The garden, visible through rain-streaked windows, was clearly waiting. You could see where borders had been cut back hard for winter, where a terrace would presumably emerge from beneath its current coating of algae and fallen twigs, where a barbecue sat under a waterproof cover looking faintly embarrassed about its enforced hibernation. In summer, I imagined, the place would burst outward. In February, it turned inward, and so did we.

That first evening, we didn't venture further than the village shop for emergency supplies, which in my case meant wine, cheese, and a baguette that had seen better days but was all that remained. The shopkeeper seemed genuinely surprised to see actual customers, though she warmed up considerably when I attempted my schoolgirl French and she responded with the slow, patient English of someone who has watched many British tourists massacre her language.

Walking back through the half-dark, the lane was slippery with wet leaves, the kind of surface that keeps your attention firmly on your feet rather than the scenery. But looking up, past the bare branches that would soon enough be hidden by green, I could see the shape of the hills, the way the land rolled and folded into itself. Winter strips everything back to structure, to bones. It was not beautiful in the obvious postcard sense. It was something better, something you had to meet halfway.

That night, rain against the windows and the wood burner finally mastered to something approaching a steady glow, I felt the particular pleasure of being somewhere at precisely the right time for what it was offering. Summer would bring crowds, light evenings, the pressure to be outside making the most of things. February asked nothing. February simply let you in, handed you a blanket, and suggested you stop trying so hard.

I fell asleep to the sound of what I desperately hoped was rain on the roof and not, as it briefly sounded, a small animal with architectural ambitions. Some mysteries, I decided, could wait for morning. The cows had already seen enough of my decision-making for one day.