I have to admit, I had never heard of Weris before I booked the cottage. I kept telling people I was off to Luxembourg, Belgium, and they would nod politely and ask how the Grand Duchy was treating me. No, no, I would say, Luxembourg the province. In Belgium. The Belgian one. At this point their eyes would glaze over, and I would change the subject to biscuits.

The drive down from Calais in late November was precisely as grey as you would expect. The Belgian motorways stretched ahead in an endless ribbon of drizzle and roadworks, and I made the classic mistake of trusting my sat nav's estimated arrival time. It did not account for my desperate need for a loo break at a service station just outside Liege, where I spent twenty minutes queuing behind a coach party buying enough chocolate to sink a barge. By the time I turned off the main road and into the winding lanes of the Ardennes, the light was fading fast and the fog had rolled in like a particularly uninvited guest.

Here is where I must confess my mishap. The cottage, a charming stone affair with timber framing and more nooks than a grandmother's pantry, sits down a narrow track. I spotted the sign, turned confidently, and promptly wedged my hire car between two rather determined hedgerows. The crunch was not loud, but it was deeply personal. I sat there for a moment, weighing my dignity against the growing darkness, before admitting defeat and reversing with the careful precision of a man who has already paid the excess waiver.

Stepping out into the November evening, the damp cold hit me like a wet towel. But the cottage, when I finally got the key to cooperate, was a revelation. The wood burner had been set ready, and the instructions left by the owners were pinned to a beam with the practical warmth of people who understand Belgian winters. I spent my first hour not exploring the village or planning hikes, but simply thawing. The seasonal darkness outside made the pool of orange light from the fire feel like a genuine achievement, something I had earned through sheer navigational incompetence.

Weris itself, I discovered the next morning, wears autumn and early winter rather well. The village is one of those tiny Belgian affairs where the houses huddle together as if for warmth, and the famous megaliths nearby stood stark against the bare trees. In summer, I imagine, the place buzzes with walkers and cyclists. In late November, it was just me, the mist, and a local dog who followed me for half a mile in the hope I might produce a sausage. I did not, and our friendship ended in mutual disappointment.

The cottage's kitchen became my headquarters. The short daylight hours meant any outdoor ambition needed planning like a military operation. I would rise, make coffee, watch the fog lift slowly from the valley, and calculate whether I had time to reach the shops in Durbuy and back before the light failed. Usually I did not, and settled for a walk to the village instead, returning with muddy boots and a renewed appreciation for central heating.

There is something about this corner of Belgium in the low season that strips away pretence. The tourist offices are closed. The restaurants keep unpredictable hours. You are left with the landscape itself, which in the Ardennes means rolling hills, sudden streams, and the constant possibility of rain. The cottage, with its thick walls and beamed ceilings, felt less like a holiday rental and more like a shelter. I read books I had been carrying unread for two years. I cooked elaborate stews that took all afternoon. I stared out of windows with the dedicated purposelessness of a man with nowhere particular to be.

On my final morning, I woke to frost. The car, still bearing the faint scars of my arrival, needed scraping. The valley below the cottage was white and silent, and for a moment I understood why people choose this time of year deliberately. The summer crowds would never see this. The mist, the quiet, the sense of having stumbled into a place that was keeping its own counsel.

I left with frozen fingers and a full heart, already planning a return. Next time, though, I will approach the drive with more caution. Some lessons are written in hedge trimmings.