I'd never been to Alsace before, and my first introduction to it involved me trying to reverse a hire car into a gap that was clearly designed for a bicycle. The sat-nav had given up three miles back, apparently offended by the narrow lanes around Natzwiller, and I was now performing a seventeen-point turn in front of what I desperately hoped was our holiday cottage. My partner sat in the passenger seat making helpful comments like "there's space" and "you're fine," neither of which was strictly true.

The property, when I finally stopped sweating and actually looked at it, was one of those traditional half-timbered affairs that make you feel like you've wandered into a storybook. Dark wooden beams, pale plaster, a little balcony that seemed almost apologetic about its own charm. I'd booked it in a hurry during a particularly grim Tuesday lunch break, and now here we were, standing in the Vosges foothills with our suitcases and my slightly dented pride.

The mishap, because there always is one with us, came when I tried to open the key safe. The instructions mentioned a "gentle pull." I pulled gently. Nothing. I pulled less gently. Still nothing. I then pulled with the kind of enthusiasm I usually reserve for opening stubborn jam jars, and the whole mechanism came away in my hand, revealing that I'd been working on the decorative cover rather than the actual safe. My partner laughed so hard she had to sit down on our smallest suitcase, which promptly collapsed.

A neighbour emerged from the house opposite, witnessed my performance, and kindly pointed out that the real key safe was approximately six inches to the left. He didn't speak much English, and my French extends to ordering coffee and apologising, so we conducted an entire conversation of mutual embarrassment in broken fragments of both languages. He was terribly good-natured about it. I suspect I provided excellent entertainment for the village.

Stepping inside for the first time, the smell hit me immediately: that particular scent of old wood and mountain air that no candle has ever successfully replicated. The floors creaked in a welcoming way, not a concerning way. The kitchen was compact but serious about its purpose, with copper pans hanging like trophies. Someone had left a bottle of local Riesling on the counter, which I decided was either a lovely welcome gesture or emergency relief for guests who'd struggled with the key safe. I chose to believe both.

The balcony, once I'd calmed down enough to appreciate it, overlooked a garden that sloped gently towards trees and the distant suggestion of hills. A red squirrel was conducting what appeared to be important business near a bird feeder. I stood there with my wine, still slightly trembling from the driving and the key safe incident, and felt that particular shift that happens when holiday properly begins. The chaos of arrival, the small humiliations, they become the stories you'll tell later. Already I could feel this one becoming fond rather than frustrating.

My partner joined me, clicking her glass against mine. "Nice place," she said, which from her counts as enthusiastic praise. The squirrel paused its activities to judge us. Evening light was starting to filter through the trees in that soft, golden way that makes Alsace look like it's showing off.

I thought about how I'd rushed the booking, how the journey had frayed my nerves, how I'd wrestled a key safe into submission for no reason whatsoever. None of it mattered now. The creaky floors, the wine, the ridiculous squirrel, the quiet of a village I'd never heard of until six weeks ago. That's the thing about first impressions: they're rarely graceful, but they're always honest. This place already felt like somewhere I could be happily incompetent for a week.

Tomorrow we'd explore properly, find the local boulangerie, perhaps attempt a walk without getting lost. For now, we stayed on that small balcony as the light faded, two tired travellers with a broken suitcase and a newly acquired anecdote, already planning how we'd embarrass ourselves next.