I have never been so relieved to see a roof as I was when we finally spotted the cottage in Waimes, just outside Liege. The sat nav had given up somewhere near the German border, my phone had decided roaming was beneath it, and my wife had spent the last twenty minutes reading the map upside down. "I think it's this way," she kept saying, pointing confidently at a field of cows.

The mishap, though. I need to tell you about the mishap. We had stopped at a service station near Verviers for supplies, and I had proudly purchased what I believed to be a fine Belgian cheese for our first evening. Smug, I was. Practically patting myself on the back for embracing local culture. It was only when we arrived at the cottage, unpacked our bags, and I unwrapped my prize that I discovered I had bought a block of soap. Lavender soap, specifically. Very nice soap, to be fair, but absolutely useless on crackers. My daughter still brings this up at every meal. "Dad's cheese," she calls it, with the kind of affectionate cruelty only teenagers can manage.

The cottage itself was one of those solid stone affairs that look like they have been there since Napoleon had a sulk. Thick walls, small windows, a front door that required a shoulder and some encouraging language. I loved it immediately. My wife loved it after she found the coffee machine. My daughter loved it when she discovered the WiFi password written on the fridge. We all have our priorities.

First impressions of the interior were of comfortable chaos. Not the bad kind, but the lived-in, welcoming sort. A sofa that had clearly supported many bottoms after long walks. A kitchen table with the slight wobble that suggests decades of family meals. Books everywhere, including a Belgian cookbook that I opened hopefully before remembering the soap incident and quietly closing it again.

The garden was where we spent that first evening, too tired to attempt anything ambitious. Just the three of us, some actual cheese from a shop in Waimes that I checked very carefully, and the sounds of the Ardennes settling down for the night. A dog barked somewhere. Birds argued in the trees. My daughter put her phone down for nearly four minutes, which I counted as a victory.

I found myself reflecting, as I tend to do after too much driving and just enough wine, about how we plan these holidays with such precision. The activities, the restaurants, the cultural experiences. And then we arrive, and what actually matters is sitting in a slightly damp garden chair, watching the light fade, while your family teases you about bathroom products. The cottage had a barbecue that looked older than me. We would definitely use it tomorrow, we decided. Definitely. Probably.

That first night, I slept better than I had in months. Something about the weight of old stone, the absolute darkness, the quiet that only comes from being properly rural. My wife said I snored. My daughter said I talked in my sleep, something about "the cheese." I chose not to pursue this.

Waimes itself would wait for morning. The walks, the local shops, the inevitable hunt for more edible souvenirs. But that first evening was perfect in its unplanned simplicity. The cottage had done what good cottages do, which is to slow everything down before you even realise you needed it.

I still have the soap, by the way. It smells lovely. I just do not serve it to guests.