I have never been brilliant with sat navs, and my trip to Rendeux in the Belgian Ardennes proved it in spectacular fashion. Somewhere around Bastogne, the cheerful voice directed me down what I can only describe as a glorified goat track, and before I knew it I was staring at a very unimpressed farmer who was trying to herd sheep past my Renault Clio. My children found this absolutely hilarious, of course, and my youngest has already added "made Dad reverse half a mile past a field of cows" to her list of holiday highlights. We arrived at the cottage twenty minutes later than planned, slightly muddy, and with my dignity in tatters.

The property itself sits in a wonderfully quiet spot just outside Rendeux proper, surrounded by proper woodland that feels a million miles from anywhere. First impressions? Relief, mostly. After the sheep incident, I half expected to find we'd booked a shed. Instead, we pulled up to a handsome stone building with a steep roof and more windows than I could count, all of them catching the afternoon light. The garden slopes down towards trees, and my lot were out of the car and poking around before I'd even found the key safe code.

Inside, the place had that lovely lived-in feel that holiday cottages so often miss. Nothing too precious, nothing too polished. The kitchen was big enough to actually cook in without doing that awkward dance where you're bumping elbows with anyone who dares enter. My wife immediately started opening cupboards and making pleased noises about the size of the fridge, which I have learned over fifteen years of marriage is an excellent sign. The sitting room had a wood burner that the children clocked instantly, and I spent the next ten minutes explaining that no, we were not lighting it in September, and yes, we absolutely would later in the week.

The bedrooms were up a fairly steep staircase that I will admit gave me a moment's pause after a long drive. The master had views straight out into those woods, and I stood there for a minute feeling rather pleased with myself despite the sheep debacle. The children's room had twin beds and that particular stillness that makes you hope they might actually sleep well. My eldest announced that the wardrobe was "definitely haunted," which she meant as a compliment, and then spent twenty minutes arranging her stuffed animals in defensive positions.

What struck me most, wandering around that first afternoon, was how quickly the place felt like ours. Not in a possessive way, but in that comfortable sense of settling in. We unpacked badly, as we always do, bags half-open in corners, shoes abandoned in hallways. My wife made tea with the supplies we'd brought. I stood at the kitchen window watching a squirrel have what appeared to be an absolute breakdown in the garden, darting back and forth with no clear objective. The children found a deck of cards and started a game that quickly descended into accusations of cheating.

By evening, the mishap of the journey already felt like part of the story rather than a disaster. We walked the lane outside, just a gentle wander to stretch legs and orient ourselves. The air smelled of leaves and woodsmoke from somewhere distant. A car passed maybe once every ten minutes. My youngest held my hand without being asked, which she only does when she's genuinely content.

Dinner that night was simple, almost defiantly so. Pasta, sauce from a jar, bread from the little shop we'd passed in Rendeux village. We ate at the kitchen table with the windows open, and nobody checked their phones because the signal was patchy enough to make it not worth the bother. I caught my wife's eye at one point and we shared that look, the one that says we have absolutely done the right thing coming here, sheep and all.

The wood burner stayed unlit that evening, though the children asked twice more. We played another card game, this one ending in slightly less chaos. I found myself thinking, as I often do on the first night of a proper break, about how rarely we manage this at home. The being together without screens or schedules or the endless mental list of things that need doing. Here, the list felt very short indeed. Find more firewood for later in the week. Remember which day the bakery van comes. Try not to get lost again.

I fell asleep that night to the sound of wind in the trees and my youngest's snuffling breathing from the next room. The sat nav sat reproachfully on the bedside table, already plotting some fresh betrayal for the journey home. I did not care. For now, we had arrived, slightly battered, entirely happy, and ready for whatever simple chaos the week might bring.