I should have known the Sat Nav was up to no good when it tried to send me through a field of very unimpressed-looking cows. Three hours from Calais, two wrong turns, and one increasingly tense marriage later, we finally spotted the sign for Wibrin. Relief does not begin to cover it.

The mishap, though. I promised you a mishap. There we were, triumphant at having located the village, when I confidently reversed our hire car into what I assumed was the property's generous parking area. It was, in fact, the neighbour's meticulously arranged woodpile. The crunch was spectacular. The neighbour, a splendid chap called Marcel, emerged from his shed with the weary expression of a man who has seen this exact scene played out by countless Brits before. Through a magnificent combination of broken French, wild gesticulation, and the international language of mortified embarrassment, we established that no lasting harm was done. He even helped me restack the logs, though I suspect this was partly to ensure I did not make an even worse fist of it.

The cottage itself, when I finally turned my attention to it properly, was an absolute stonker. Proper old Ardennes farmhouse, all thick walls and wonky roofline, the sort of place that looks like it has been standing since before Belgium was technically Belgium. The key was in the lockbox exactly where the booking said, which felt like a minor miracle given my performance thus far. I fumbled the code twice because my hands were still shaking from the woodpile incident.

Stepping inside was like walking into someone's very tidy grandmother's house, if that grandmother happened to have excellent taste in rustic furniture and underfloor heating. The smell hit first - that particular combination of old wood, fresh linen, and something faintly herby that I later discovered was a lavender bag in the wardrobe. The kitchen was vast and slightly intimidating, with a proper range cooker that I immediately knew I was not qualified to operate. My partner, ever the optimist, began opening every cupboard with the enthusiasm of someone who has not just destroyed a stranger's firewood.

The garden sloped away towards trees, and somewhere in the distance I could hear water - the river Ourthe, I would later learn, though at that moment I was too busy noticing the outdoor furniture and calculating how many evenings we could justify sitting there with local beer. The light was doing that golden evening thing that makes the Ardennes look like a film set, all dappled and atmospheric, and for a moment I forgot about the woodpile entirely.

I will not pretend the arrival was graceful. I was sweaty, flustered, and carrying far too many bags because I had refused to make two trips. My partner was already investigating the barbecue with the focused expression of a man who has found his purpose. Somewhere, a dog barked. Marcel, presumably, was recounting the tale of the English woodpile destroyer to his wife.

But standing there in that doorway, with the smell of dinner beginning from somewhere down the lane and the quiet settling in properly for the first time since Dover, I felt that particular holiday feeling creep in. The one where the journey, however chaotic, has delivered you somewhere that already feels like it might be worth the trouble.