I should have known the holiday was going to be eventful when I put "Manhay, Luxembourg, Belgium" into the sat nav and it tried to send me to a roundabout in Hertfordshire. Three hours into our journey from Kent, my partner Dave finally admitted he'd been spelling it wrong the entire time. "It's Man-hay," he said, as if this revelation justified us driving past Calais twice. The kids had already eaten every snack I'd packed for the week and were threatening mutiny somewhere near Lille.

We eventually crossed into Belgium proper and wound through the Ardennes, which I must say is properly gorgeous in that understated, wooded way. None of your dramatic Alpine business, just rolling hills and the occasional cow giving you a judgmental stare. The sat nav finally piped up that we'd arrived, and there it was: our holiday cottage, looking exactly like the photos which, in my experience of holiday bookings, almost never happens. Usually you arrive to find the "charming rustic feature" is a damp patch shaped like Italy.

The property sits in a tiny hamlet just outside Manhay itself, surrounded by proper countryside. I stood in the gravel driveway, stretching my legs and feeling quite smug about the whole endeavour, when Dave opened the boot and discovered our suitcase had somehow unzipped itself. His pants were currently decorating the A4 outside Spa. The children found this hilarious. I found it less so, given I'd packed carefully and he'd literally just thrown his clothes in and sat on the lid.

First impressions of the cottage, though? Spot on. It's one of those solid Belgian country houses with beams that have seen centuries come and go, and a kitchen that actually has sharp knives and pans that don't wobble. I've stayed in enough rental properties to know this is not guaranteed. There was a proper wood burner which the children immediately claimed as their territory, and a dining table big enough that we wouldn't be elbowing each other during meals. Dave attempted to light the burner while I unpacked what remained of our belongings, and produced more smoke than warmth. The kids declared it "atmospheric."

What struck me most was the quiet. Not the creepy silence of isolation, but that particular hush you get when there's simply nothing much happening beyond birds and the occasional tractor. We popped to the local shop in Manhay village for essentials - bread, cheese, the inevitable wine - and the woman behind the counter was so friendly I nearly told her about the pants incident. Some things are best kept between family.

The garden became our evening headquarters while Dave and I worked out the barbecue. Belgian sausages are, I discovered, not to be underestimated. The children ran about until it got properly dark, which takes longer than you'd think in late summer, and we sat with our drinks watching the light fade over the fields. I found myself actually relaxing, which I hadn't expected. I'm usually the one fretting about whether I've packed enough socks or if the boiler will explode.

That first evening, slightly chaotic, slightly smoky, with Dave wearing my spare jogging bottoms and the kids arguing over who got the top bunk, I realised this was exactly what we'd needed. No grand plans, no itinerary, just a solid house in a beautiful bit of Belgium and time to do very little indeed. The pants situation notwithstanding, we were off to a cracking start.